


Among the Willows

by DevinBourdain



Series: Western Enterprises [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Armed Robbery, Bandits & Outlaws, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hostage Situations, Hurt Bones, Hurt Kirk, Hurt McCoy, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Kirk Whump, McCoy Whump, Murder, Torture, Trains, Vulcans as a first nations tribe, Western, hangings, stagecoaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:25:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 51,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevinBourdain/pseuds/DevinBourdain
Summary: The blond walks over and sits on the edge of McCoy’s bed with a smile that suggests their old friends.  “About time you woke up.  I didn’t hire you to sleep on the job.”  His voice is cheery and his smile effortless and Leonard wants to punch him in his perfect face for being so breezy and friendly in what amounts to a hostage situation.McCoy’s muscles protest as he struggles to sit up, grabbing his head as vertigo sets in.  “You didn’t hire me at all!”  he snarls, because the point has to be made.  “In fact you drugged me and then you bashed me over the head! I’m not your guest, I’m your god damn hostage!”  He wonders why he has to educate his kidnapper on the proper protocol of holding a hostage. Of all the outlaw gangs in the wild west, McCoy get’s kidnapped by a ragtag gang of misfits that seems to have a better understanding of right and wrong than the lawmen employed to police the towns and a personal vendetta against the man running things behind the scenes.  It’s definitely not the simple life of a country doctor he had planned and if the head of the gang is anything to go by, these people are going to be the death of him.A western AU.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Star Trek characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.  
> Warnings: language and violence.  
> Comments are always welcome and appreciated

The thud of rampaging hooves sounds like thunder rolling over the prairies at the end of a long summer day.It echoes through the streets with the same brutality as the accompanying gunshots.Instead of the lingering smell of wet grass and muddy streets that complemented a much-needed storm, the air is heavy with smoke, gunpowder and blood.

Wide bright blue eyes peer through the slats in the boardwalk, tracking the violence unfolding in the formerly peaceful town.The small boy leans forward to get a better angle in which to view the town square from his hiding place, but his mother’s firm, unyielding grip keeps him close to her chest.She had pulled him under the boardwalk in front of the general store when the first shot preceded the rolling thunder of the invading riders. They continue to hide there even now as the violence rages on.

Fights had broken out in town before, but never at this magnitude.This was akin to war that the old timers perched out in front of the saloon spoke of when the children were playing particularly noisy games and needed to be calmed down with tales of gun slinging adventure.The Sheriff usually had the bad guys in jail long before there was cause to hide, pressed against the ground in the shadow of the boardwalk.

There was no better lawman than the Sheriff of Federation City as far as the boy was concerned.Blessed every night with heroic tales of justice served and a town saved before the Sheriff tucked him in and promised sweet dreams was all the evidence he needed to believe in the man.

Right now, the state of the town is the complete opposite of everything he has been promised.Black smoke billows up from the buildings, chased towards the heavens by savage flames.Cries of anguished townsfolk seem as unrelenting as the gunfire.The boy’s focus never wavers, even as his mother’s sobs intensify.He knows he should stay hidden, at the very least to protect his mother- but he needs to see the unyielding glint of the Sheriff’s badge pinned proudly on his father’s chest, to know that everything is going to be alright; good always triumphs in the face of evil.

The grip around his waist tightens as a sharp gasp escapes his mother’s lips.Turning his head towards the other end of Main Street he sees what has captured his mother’s attention.His little heart pounds in his chest, growing stronger and louder as the rope is tossed over the thick branch of the oak tree at the start of town.The noose at the end dangles proudly for all to see.The unfortunate townspeople that failed to take cover when the raid began are forcefully lined up on either side of the street; a captive audience for the proclamation being dictated by the rider of the beige horse.

The words, loud and forceful for all to hear, don’t matter as the boy watches in horror, the familiar white stallion being led towards the noose, carrying its rider to his date with the hangman.His mother’s fierce grip doesn’t stand a chance against his desperation as he slips free, running the agonizing distance between his hiding place and his father.He runs as hard as his little legs will carry him, the noose slipping around his father’s neck and tightening.

The Sheriff’s struggles renew, the harsh bite of the course rope biting into his bound wrists.The horse, his trusted steed, huffs as it takes a hesitant step forward, pulling the rope around his neck even tighter.Carefully, as not to slip off the saddle completely, the Sheriff leans back slightly to try and give slack to the noose.“James, no!” he forces from his constricted throat as he helplessly watches one of the raiders scoop up his son.The horror of the situation pales in comparison anything that might happen to his son now.He could live with the rope or rather die contently by it as long James was spared from it.

James struggles in the vice grip of the stranger keeping him from his father; his hero.The other raiders laugh at the child’s thrashingas the gunman passes him up to the rider on the beige horse.James can feel the hot acidic breath of his captor whispering in his ear.“Well what do we have here?” The man is the symbolic image of every outlaw the Sheriff had triumphantly dispatched in his tales.The harder James struggles to free himself for this visage of evil, the harder the young man holding him laughs.“Looks just like his daddy.”

James has heard it from many people in his life.His mother says it with fondness and the townspeople say it with awe.The sound of it now sends an unnatural chill through his bones.

“You let him go, Nero.He has no part in this,” hisses the Sheriff, the same electric blue eyes as the boy, threatening righteous fury.

Nero snarls.“Oh, I think he does, Sheriff.”He returns his attention to the squirming burden in his arms, digging his fingers painfully into the boy’s shoulders until James lets out a pained hiss.

“Leave him alone!” he demands of the raiders.“It’s going to be alright, James, you hear me?”assures the Sheriff, strained reassurance breaking in his voice.His eyes zero in on his son, trying to convey all the promise and reassurance of those words despite feeling achingly hopeless.

“You wanna see what happens to lawmen in these parts?” asks Nero, his voice loud and abrasive in the boy’s ear.

James ceases his struggles, tears filling his eyes as they narrow on his father.“Daddy?”

“James!” shouts the Sheriff, his voice cutting through all the noise and commotion around them.Urgency creeps into the captive’s voice as one of the riders slips off his horse and positions himself behind the horse that is keeping the rope from tightening its deadly embrace around the Sheriff’s neck.“Close your eyes, James, don’t look.”

James nods his head, blindly obeying his father’s instructions without hesitation.Dad makes everything alright and if he just listens now, the bad men will learn what happens when they threaten innocent people.He squeezes his eyes tightly shut until they hurt.

A sharp snap precedes the indignant neigh of the horse carrying the Sheriff before it takes off at a gallop.The rope pulls tight, keeping the body from travelling with its stead.The rope swings back and forth, denying its victim a swift merciful death with a broken neck, leaving the hero of the town to suffocate.

“None of that now,” seethes Nero, yanking hard on the boy’s hair until his eyes snap open.James’s world comes to a stop the same time the rope stops swinging.


	2. Chapter 1

**Twenty Years Later**

The piano in the corner belts out its usual melody, as joyful as the saloon girls upstairs flirt with their next customers.  A gentle buzz of gambling, conversation and drinks being served match the alcohol assisted buzz of the patrons.  McCoy ignores all of it, his focus fixed on the glass of bourbon in his hand and the all too quickly diminishing bottle on the table.

He sits in the dark corner of the saloon, away from the rest of the townsfolk and transients that seem to check their manners and good sense at the door as the sun with its judging light of day disappears behind the distant mountains.  The booze is almost as bitter as the doctor’s mood; too much time left thinking in his office instead of patching up bullet wounds and the other maladies he was promised in a lawless western town such as Federation City when he agreed to come west. 

It had been a simple plan: escape.  Leave everything he wanted to forget behind in the dust that was the remains of his life.  If the treacherous trip out west didn’t kill him, the savagery of the people had promised to provide enough of a distraction that he wouldn’t have to think about everything, and everyone he lost.  Since McCoy’s plans never seemed to find any luck, he had survived the journey only to find himself treating the occasional knife wound from gambling disputes and common ailments; hardly enough of a distraction to keep his mind from dwelling in the past.  Life here is painfully slow and monotonous.

“Looking for some company tonight, Doctor?” asks Gaila, braving McCoy’s dark rain cloud and sliding into the empty seat beside him.  Her hand slowly brushes his knee, working its way up his thigh.

McCoy raises an eyebrow at the Saloon girl.  She is as beautiful as she is persistent; her soft red curls cascading gently down her green satin dress.  “Not particularly,” he huffs, taking a long swig off his glass to finish it off.

Gaila pouts as she reaches over to refill the doctor’s glass, leaning heavily against him.  “You know, you’re the only one who ever turns me down.”

McCoy raises his glass in toast.  “To poor judgment, then.”

“You wouldn’t regret it,” she purrs, her hand returning to his lap.

“It’s never been your skill that’s been in question, darlin’,” he promises.

A fake scowl ripples across her face.  “If I’m not pretty enough for you, I have a variety of girls to fit all kinds of tastes.”

He has to admire her entrepreneurial skills, even if he isn’t completely in favor of her chosen profession.  She has everything she promises and the sense to provide it in a place that has a shortage.  “You’re pretty enough but you and your girls are just going to have to find someone else to get their hands on.  I won’t be a notch on your bedpost tonight,” he assures her.  It’s the same song and dance every night but he can’t convince himself he’s hit rock bottom enough to take her up on her offer.  She might be the closest thing he has to a friend in this shithole and sleeping with her will either put him on the path to salvation or a less than painful trek to oblivion than the one he has planned for himself.  Either option is undesirable. 

“Pity.  I always wanted to bed a doctor.”  She lets her hand slide across McCoy’s chest and shoulders as she gracefully stands and leaves the table in search of the night’s conquest.

At the very least it would probably be the distraction he was looking for, a moment to get out of his head with something other than booze that seems to be losing its effectiveness as the days wear on.  He glances at the ring on his last finger; it had started one finger over, when his marriage was new and hopeful.  While his wife hadn’t been faithful in the days after darkness had shrouded their lives, he couldn’t bring himself to break their vows.  Even after they dissolved their union, and he put his wedding ring on a different finger, crawling in bed with the next willing body felt like a betrayal to everything they could have, should have been.  Who was he to seek comfort in someone’s willing arms when he couldn’t give any to his ex-wife?

The voices and disagreements are growing louder as the empty bottles pile up.  The conversations never seem to vary; revolving around the honesty of dishonest card games, gossip about neighbours and the legends that filtered into town of the heathens roaming the wilds outside of town. 

It seems one particular gang that’s made their name in blood, death and theft haunts the area.  Unlike most outlaws that seem to appreciate a note of notoriety, this gang thrives on secrecy and anonymity.  Almost all crimes are attributed to them even if the actual culprits are caught and hung.  One could almost admire the skill that goes into such heists and capers while remaining unidentified, if it wasn’t for the innocent casualties that occur no matter the crime.  The vague descriptions of the outlaws leave a lot to be desired and the culprits could very well be their neighbours for all anyone can tell.

Tonight’s tale is of a daring stagecoach robbery that happened outside the sleepy town to the south of Federation City.  If these outlaws were even partially good at their job, he would have something more interesting to fill his days with instead of broken fingers and cases of tuberculosis and Riginal Fever.  The thought burns him more than the bourbon.  As a doctor he hates to see people in pain, to see them suffer.  Most of the people injured in shootouts are the outlaws themselves, in which he has no compunction about taking a small amount of joy in practicing his craft and the lawmen that hunt them.  And in this neck of the woods the only thing that seems to separate the two, in his opinion, is the badge and self-proclamation that they represent the law.

McCoy normally doesn’t waste time listening to the wild spun tales but as the details continue to spill out his mood darkens even more.  He had been counting on that shipment to replenish his medical stores and now it’s sounding like his awaited supplies have been pillaged again.  He bites the inside of his cheek, needing to vent his frustration at the loss of his third shipment.  Supplies are thin to start with and without a shipment getting through soon, he’ll be helpless to solve even the most mundane maladies.

He downs his glass and pours another before slamming the empty bottle back on the table.  The first punches are being thrown around the saloon but he still manages to flag down one of the servers to bring him another bottle.  As he stares into the depths of the amber liquid he idly wonders how long it will be until the town’s out of whiskey and what he’ll have to do then to keep his ghosts from surfacing.

* * *

 

It’s the clanging sound that permeates the self-inflicted prison of McCoy’s recurring nightmare; blood and the terrible weight of a lifeless body cradled in his arms.  It takes a moment for him to pry his eyes open allowing the room to slowly take focus and Leonard isn’t entirely sure how he managed to collapse in his own bed at all.  The last clear memory bumbling around his aching head isn’t the sharp image of his nightmare, rather of the bar and the escalating argument over who cheated who at the table next to him.  Though he has worn the path from the saloon to his bedroom behind his office, he can’t remember making the arduous journey.  There’s no denying the familiar ache and pounding headache that confirms his companionship with a bottle the night before; his success at completely consuming it and his simultaneous failure at actually drinking himself to death.

The first rays of light are barely high enough to crawl through the window, the world outside his house far too quiet to be any earlier than shortly after dawn.  The muffled thumps and bangs continue to carry through the door separating his personal and professional life, only offering more confusion about his current situation.  The Doctor knows he isn’t scheduled to see anybody this early and anything short of an emergency keeps the townsfolk from braving his wrath at early intrusions.  Whoever’s in the office is too quiet for anyone’s life to be in danger.

Frowning, McCoy struggles to push himself into a sitting position, his boots thudding against the floor and his shirt pulling uncomfortably in its tangled mess.  He might have had the wherewithal to stumble home, but apparently not enough coordination to get undressed before passing out in his bed.  He runs his tongue over his dry lips, doing little to ease the horrid taste in his mouth, as the world tips slightly now that he’s finally managed to get to his feet.

McCoy’s less than graceful entrance into his office is brought up short,  as his bloodshot eyes narrow on the woman poking around his space.  It takes his brain far too long to connect the rapid rhythm of her hand pulling supplies off the shelf and stuffing it in her dust covered satchel to recognize the looting of his medical supplies for what it is.  She stills suddenly, slowly turning around to give the doctor a first look at something other than her long ponytail and slim form.

McCoy had learned to appreciate fine things growing up on the wealthier side of things back home and his self imposed exile to this dust riddled cesspool hasn’t diminished his appreciation.  She’s as beautiful as her sidearm would suggest dangerous; her dark skin the color of the coffee he desperately needs to wake his mind up to make some sense of the situation.  “What are you….” he mumbles inarticulately, finding it just as hard to coordinate his tongue as the rest of his weary limbs.  He clears his throat to try again, managing to express the displeasure he’s feeling.  “What the hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t startle at his abrasiveness even if it the boldness in the face of her weapons surprises her.  “You’re the doctor in this town?” she asks matter-of-factly.

McCoy’s headache is ramping up and the feeling of not-wanting-to-deal-with-whatever-this-is is building to epic proportions.  “What gave you that idea?  The fact that we’re in the Doctor’s office or all of my medical stuff that you’re looting?”

She stares him down, unapologetic and determined in her stance.  Heavy silence fills the air as no response is forthcoming.

The voice behind McCoy makes him flinch, unsure when someone else managed to intrude in his personal space, especially coming from his living quarters.  It’s just another example of how unprepared for the day he is.  “We have need of your services, Doctor.” 

Before the doctor even thinks about turning around to look at the person making the almost polite sounding request, a cloth covered hand wraps around McCoy’s mouth, muffling his response.  Panic is filling the doctor’s chest, triggering his struggle against the attacker.  The fight is all too brief in his opinion; disproportionate to the violation and indignity he feels at being attacked in his own home. His limbs grow heavy and weak, allowing the blackness he had craved the night before to graciously swoop back around him as his legs finally give out.  

The woman watches passively as the doctor slumps into her companion’s arms.  She only begins to move again at his crisp order, “Hurry, grab the stuff and come out the back.” She efficiently liberates the doctor’s entire cache of bandages, pills and vials while her partner in crime drags the doctor’s limp body out the back door.

* * *

 

It’s the rhythmic swaying that makes his stomach roll.  He’s never been a fan of horses- dangerous animals that man has no business riding. _If man were meant to go that fast he’d have stronger legs._ He hates stagecoaches even more.  The constant shuffle always makes him nauseous.  His head feels thick and part of him hopes he didn’t land himself face down in the middle of Main Street for some poor soul to have to drag his body back to the office.  The fools in town would probably declare him dead and bury him alive, having no other doctor to make the diagnosis.  He better not find himself in the back of the undertaker’s wagon as part of a slow precession to the cemetery.

“ ‘ill alive,” he slurs, his declaration of life not even convincing to his own ears.  McCoy cracks an eye open, getting a blinding glimpse of dusty earth in the hot afternoon sun.  It sways back and forth like his vision, an odd brown line fluctuating at the edge of his vision. 

If they were taking him to burial, he’d be looking face up at the blue sky, not folded in half over something firm and fleshy.  Slowly the thick feeling invading his head starts to fade as the realization that not only is he slung over a horse in a most undignified manner but just how he ended up in such a state of affairs comes to light.  Alarm shoots through him, running along every nerve ending and out to every extremity before slamming back to his heart.  He clamps down on his initial instinct to panic.  He never considered himself a fighter, relying on what gifts he did posses: intellect and a quick mouth. 

He wiggles his fingers and toes, only slightly disappointed at coordination, but he appears to not be restrained.  He can see his feet dangling on the other side of the horse’s underbelly.  At least he still has his boots.  The rope dangling in his face is only tied to the horse he’s flopped over, loosely leading ahead of him to the horse a couple feet ahead of his. 

It’s painful to raise his head.  The swimming image before him settles into the shape of two riders on the horse before him.  The one precariously perched on the back has to be the man who cowardly jumped him from behind in his own home.  At least the man had enough manners to let the woman take the more comfortable position on the saddle.  McCoy wants to laugh at the absurdity of the thought but has enough brain cells firing to keep his mouth shut.

After sitting in his solitude at the saloon over hearing tales of the outlaw gang that no one can ever truly identify, Leonard is having some painful ideas about his life expectancy in this little journey.  He highly doubts witnesses will be left and the very real possibility is he’s being carried to his final resting place where the only visitors his corpse will have are the vultures picking the flesh off his bones.  Panic flares up again as each clop of the hooves beneath him take him further away from town, from help and hope.

He’d been privately seeking out an end to his existence and now that it’s staring him in the face, the option doesn’t appeal to him.  The end result still has a silver lining to it but apparently self-demise is only satisfying if it’s on his terms.  Being led into the desert by two thieves is not on his terms.

The impulse to run over takes McCoy; the only thought guiding him is he has to get back to town.  It doesn’t take much to push off the horse, a grunt escaping his lips as he lands hard on the ground.  Flight is taking over, driving him to his feet and pushing back in the direction of town.  Weaving, unable to navigate a straight line, he runs as fast and as hard as his drugged and sun-baked limbs can go.

The lead horse comes to a stop, and the man perched on the back glances behind him at the pained sound.  He rolls his blue eyes as he sees the half-hearted attempt to escape, casually sliding off the horse.  His eyes crinkle with amusement and a little admiration that despite the no-win scenario of their pilfered doctor being in the middle of the dry suffocating desert, outmanned and outgunned, he’s still trying to run. 

His partner looks irritated at the pointless delay, staring down at him pointedly.  “We don’t have time for this, Kirk.”

  Kirk shrugs his shoulders as if to say ‘the guy had to try’ before taking a long breath and jogging after their captive.  He doesn’t have to work hard to catch up to the doctor, the prisoner still tangled in the effects of the ether that had been used to persuade him on this journey.  He slams into the doctor from behind, taking them both to the ground.

The wind rushes out of McCoy’s lungs as the ground rushes up to meet him.  He lets out a squeak of a protest, earning a mouthful of sand for his trouble.  There’s a weight pressing down on him and it’s all knees and elbows.  He wriggles and squirms like his life depends on it and he supposes it does.  Whatever attempt he’s making is working because his wrangler has yet to get a firm and lasting grip on him.  He throws an elbow back and hears a surprised hiss of pain for his efforts.  The weight pressing him down disappears and McCoy rolls onto his back for a better position.

The sun is blinding, forcing him to squint against its harshness.  There’s a flash of blond hair and blue eyes before pain explodes in the side of his head snapping his head to the side.  It’s all encompassing, stealing his breath and senses.  The last thing he hears is, “Sorry Doc,” and he wants to believe that guilt in the voice is actually real before he knows nothing at all.

Kirk tosses the rock in his hand to the side; a small thump announcing it’s found its new home.  “But we really need your help.”  It wasn’t the most graceful solution to rendering the doctor’s escape ineffective but it did have the desired effect.  He feels the formidable presence of his partner behind him, not having heard her even dismount.  They both stare at the unconscious doctor for a moment.

“You’re carrying him,” she snaps, turning crisply and marching back towards her horse.

Kirk smiles despite himself.  When they’re in the thick of things, there’s never a dispute as to who’s in charge, everyone falling in line accordingly but other times, he knows when to let others call the shots.  He bends over and hefts the doctor’s dead weight over his shoulder, carrying him back to the horse he had graciously given to the doctor to start with.  He carefully flops his burden back over the saddle, reaching for the rope to bind the prisoner to the horse this time.

The gash on the doctor’s head is bleeding, not enough to be entirely worrisome but he feels for the headache the doctor can expect upon waking.  Kirk pulls out a handkerchief to gently pat at the wound.  The doctor managed to smash his elbow right in Kirk’s eye, which most people would want retribution for, but he just feels a modicum of respect for the man.  He doubts the doctor will ever know what an accomplishment it is to catch him that off guard in a fight.

He ties the handkerchief around his prisoner’s head; it does little good to kidnap a doctor only to have the man succumb to infection himself before fulfilling his purpose.  His hand runs along the rope connecting the horses, making his way to his partner.  She hadn’t been overly fond of this plan to start with, but he’s not going to apologize for every little hiccup.  They’re almost home and then their worries and burdens will be lessened; he hopes.

 


	3. Chapter 2

It’s becoming a bad habit, waking up disoriented and with a headache.  It could be bearable if it was the fallout of a night spent with good drink, but McCoy knows it’s not.  His irritation is growing and he wants to literally bite someone’s head off for the added crap that seems to have covered his life.  At least he’s lying down this time, the nausea-inducing trot of a horse a distant memory.

His hand cautiously goes to the unrelenting throb in the side of his head.  The area is tender, his fingers tracing over the weaved fabric of the bandage wrapped around his head.  Hard patches of dried blood dot long the fabric.  He feels some relief that the bandage isn’t soaked or still bleeding but mostly he’s pissed at the gall of his kidnapper.  Bracing himself for the stab of pain that only light can offer, he pries his eyes open.  White ripples above his head, rolling like the waves of the sea.  The gentle breeze is finding its way through the flap of the large white tent standing boldly around him. 

It’s silent except for the rustle of the tent pulling taught in the breeze.  His captors managed to get the drop on him before and he’s not in a hurry for a repeat performance, refusing to let the silence lure him into a false sense of security.  His brazen attempt at escape wasn’t well thought out and he isn't going to make that mistake twice.  He glances around his prison without moving his head, even without the cold metal bars, this place is a prison.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees a man fast asleep, balanced precariously in his chair with his feet on the table.  His mouth is gaping and an almost inaudible snore ripples through him.

McCoy tilts his head up and flinches back in surprise as he catches a pair of enthusiastic green eyes unnervingly zeroed in on him, watching him intently.

“The Doctor is awake!” shouts the man, a boy really now that McCoy takes a better look at him.

The accent-laden cry sends a sharp spike of agony through his head and he can’t help but scrunch his eyes and bring his hand to his head to try and ease his torment.  “Shut up, damn it!” he snaps at the kid at almost the same volume.  He’d regret causing himself more pain if the point didn’t have to be made.

The abrupt shout doesn’t just rattle the doctor; the sleeping man jerks awake.  The chair topples over completely as the man pushes back against the table in surprise, landing in a heap on the ground.  “Good god, laddie, canne man sleep in peace around here?” he demands, picking himself off the floor and straightening his rumpled clothes.

The kid has the decency to look sheepish offing the other man an apologetic shrug.  He turns his attention back to McCoy, looking at him like a kid stepping into a candy store for the first time.  His grin is all youthfulness and hope and the doctor has to look away in the face of it.

The tent flap opens, the blond and woman from earlier striding in with grace and purpose.  The woman hangs near the door but the blond walks over and sits on the edge of McCoy’s bed with a smile that suggests their old friends.  “About time you woke up.  I didn’t hire you to sleep on the job.”  His voice is cheery and his smile effortless and Leonard wants to punch him in his perfect face for being so breezy and friendly in what amounts to a hostage situation.

McCoy’s muscles protest as he struggles to sit up, grabbing his head as vertigo sets in.  “You didn’t hire me at all!”  he snarls, because the point has to be made.  “In fact you _drugged_ me and then you bashed me over the head!”

If it’s possible, the blonde’s smile gets bigger. “Only a little,” he amends.  “And I apologize for the head thing.  If it makes you feel better, I was starting to worry I’d hit you too hard.”

It’s hard to miss the ever-present gun sitting snugly against the man’s hip and it’s enough to take the sincerity out of the apology.  In fact, everyone except him seems to be well armed, driving home the fact that, yes, he’s been shanghaied by outlaws.  Knowing his luck, it’s probably the gang that has had the town all worked up, meaning this will end with a bullet in his skull and a shallow grave.  Since he can’t leave well enough alone, his mouth works of its own accord, “Yeah, I bet the bludgeoning of a country doctor would really keep the likes of you up all night.”

Kirk places a hand over his heart and jerks back like he’s been shot.  A pout forms on his face. “Words hurt.”  He glances around the room, at the group of people who are all staring intently at the doctor.  A warm feeling sweeps over him at the sight.   “And what you know about the likes of us?” he asks, the smile returning to his face like he has a secret he can’t quite keep to himself.

“Outlaws aren’t known for their compassion,” challenges McCoy.  He’s hung over, and probably sporting a mild concussion and the start of heat stroke so his self-preservation impulse is clearly taking a nap.  “While the good folk of these lands spend their time in church begging for forgiveness for any slight trespass you lot are stealing and bathing in blood like it’s your salvation.”  It’s harsh, he really doesn’t know these people but so far his experience has been tainted with kidnapping, a head injury and theft and that’s enough to place them firmly in dislike category.

The smile vanishes from Kirk’s face at the doctor’s words.  He’s tense and rigid and an audience isn’t required.  “Out!” he snaps, harsh and decisive.  The rest of his gang high-tails it out of there without hesitation.  It’s just the two of them now, the space suddenly too big and claustrophobic at the same time.  “You don’t know anything about us,” he growls.  It’s a warning as much as it is a promise.  His hand comes to settle on the handle of the gun on his right hip.

“What are you going to do, shoot me?”  The calm of his voice surprises him.  Really the situation is out of his hands and there is only one way it could possibly end.  And wasn’t that what he was looking for when he made the trek into the final frontier, when he left everything he knew behind?  He could force his captor’s hand; resolve the situation on his terms.

Kirk stares him down, finger twitching minutely on the trigger as he weighs his options, the dare in the doctor’s voice.  The smile suddenly returns to his face. “Maybe later.  Right now I have someone in need of your services.”  He grabs the doctor harshly by the shoulder, dragging him from his bed.   

McCoy has no choice to follow the iron grip around his arm.  He stumbles to his feet and lags behind his captor, his coordination still hampered.  The uneven ground outside does nothing to improve his balance and he stumbles a couple of steps, kept upright only by the hand on him.  The gang may have dispersed from the tent but he can see them all loitering nearby.  Their eyes follow him at every step like he’s an attraction at a freak show.  His stomach rolls again, protesting any position other than prone.  While he’s not fond of his treatment up until this point, McCoy knows it could be worse.  He feels it’s only fair to forewarn his guard, “I may throw up on you.”

Kirk eases up his stride at the doctor’s announcement, and laughs at the green tinge climbing up the man’s cheeks.  He releases his hold, slapping him hard on the shoulder before his hand moves completely away.  “Thanks for the warning.”  He barely manages two steps away before the doctor is throwing up.  He waits patiently for the man’s coughing and sputtering to cease, averting his eyes to give the semblance of privacy.  When the doctor finally stands up straight, wiping his chin with his sleeve, Kirk offers him his hand.  “Jim Kirk,” he declares with pride.

McCoy stares at the hand like it might bite.  Reluctantly he accepts the hand going along with the gentle shake.  He resoundingly doesn’t want to make friends with his captor, but a little good will might produce the chance to escape.  “Leonard McCoy.” 

If it’s possible the man’s smile gets even brighter and Leonard notices just how young his captor is.  He follows Kirk without being beckoned through the camp.  Really it’s like a small settlement tucked away in the middle of nowhere.  For living outside the law, this gang has a plenitude of comforts.  There are several large tents and a coral filled with horses and other animals.  There’s even an aqueduct system set up to bring water into the camp.  The thing that catches his eye is the stack of crates near one of the tents, the stagecoach logo prominently displayed. 

Before he can protest their presence, he finds himself at the entrance to their destination.  Kirk holds the tent flap open and gestures him inside.  McCoy’s not sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it.  The man in the bed trembles with fever, completely oblivious to the world, but the other man playing nursemaid at his side glances up as they enter.

“How is he, Spock?” asks Kirk, suddenly looking forlorn.

Spock stands and places the damp washcloth back in the basin on the bedside table.  “Captain Pike’s condition remains unchanged.”

McCoy doesn’t wait to be asked.  He can’t turn down someone in trouble and judging by the pale skin, tremors and blood stained sheets, this man is in trouble.  Spock glares at him as he approaches the bed, only backing down when Kirk waves him off.  “What the hell happened?” demands McCoy as he examines the patient.

“We had a little mishap,” offers Kirk.

There are scrapes and bumps all over the patient but the worst that McCoy can find is the foot.  The bullet had shattered the anklebone, which would have been bad enough, but the subsequent infection is what’s killing the man now.  “This is more than a little mishap.”

“Can you help him?” 

McCoy swallows at the desperation in Kirk’s eyes.  He looks down at the patient, weighing the odds.  The foot’s a mess, past the point of saving; the real gamble is whether or not he can get the infection under control.  “If I take the foot, there’s a chance he can be saved.”

Kirk’s face tightens with distress as he bites his bottom lip.  He knows what it means, not just to Pike to lose his foot but to the whole gang, to him, but having Pike dead is an even worse option.  “Do whatever you have to.”  He turns to Spock who’s standing stoically beside him.  “Get the doctor whatever he needs.”

Kirk’s never been shy of blood or death but the room is suddenly closing in on him.  He’s about to put his friend, his mentor, the closest thing he’s had to a father in years’ life in the hands of a stranger whose reputation suggests he has the skills to salvage the situation.  He can’t watch what’s about to happen.  Giving into the urge to flee, Kirk leaves, numbly walking through the camp until finds himself standing in their makeshift kitchen.

Scotty’s there but he doesn’t say anything; Kirk’s face says enough for the both of them.  He hands Kirk a glass of his latest concoction from his still and they sit in companionable silence.  It burns the whole way down but that warm tingly feeling is quick to wrap its arms loving around the ball of dread resting heavily in Kirk’s gut. 

It’s the second round of the waiting game that he didn’t want to play in the first place and he hates the helpless feeling that has been choking him ever since he watched Pike fall from his horse.  Careful had been their motto and it had served them well; talented people coming together to make sure every operation went off without a hitch.  Their success rate was still intact, it wasn’t a mission that led them to ruin, it was a goddamn trip home.  Pike had wanted to check on his sister’s homestead; the promise of a good home-cooked meal too much for them to pass up.  They never made it, ambushed on the trail by a group of raiders.  The first shot cracked across the canyon and before they could pinpoint exactly where the shooter was, Pike was already toppling to the ground.  Spock and Kirk had made it out of the line fire, taking refuge behind some boulders. 

It would have all been over had Kirk not grabbed Pike and convinced Spock to take a leap of faith with him and jump into the river.  The currents carried them away to safety but the damage had been done.  Even now Kirk replays the image over in his mind, looking for anything that could have tipped them off before the first shot was fired, for anyway they could have killed their enemies instead of turning tail and running.  The raiders were out there and he wasn’t going to rest until they were six feet under.  He couldn’t abide people taking the ones he loved.

He loses track of time, drinking glass after glass of Scotty’s homemade brew.  At some point everyone had assembled in the cookhouse waiting for news, still believing things could turnout for the best.  Kirk knows it didn’t matter, whatever the outcome their family is losing a member, they are losing their Captain.

Kirk snaps out of his melancholy as McCoy wanders in.  The doctor looks tired and defeated.   Jim holds his breath.  Everyone else takes a collective step forward, the anticipation crackling in the air.  “How’d it go?” asks Kirk, sullen and staring into his glass like it holds the answers he’s looking for.

“He stands a good chance now, as long as I can keep the infection under control,” replied McCoy.  The mood in the room changes to something more positive; the stiff edges of everyone waiting growing soft and smooth at his revelation.

Kirk finally looks up at the doctor, notices the blood soaking his shirt and painting his hands.  “Good job, Bones.”  He kicks the chair across from him out from the table and nods towards it with his head.

McCoy wearily walks towards the offered seat, never taking his eyes off Kirk.  Every muscle in his body sings relief at getting to sit down and he sinks a little deeper into the chair.  He doesn’t even have to ask for a drink, the man beside Kirk, the one that toppled his chair over earlier in the day, slides a glass in front of him.  He takes it gratefully, mumbles, “Thanks.”

Kirk’s lost in his glass again but manages a, “McCoy, this is Scotty, Scotty, McCoy.”  The two men nod their acknowledgement before Jim continues.  “Scotty is the best engineer and demolition expert you can steal from the army.”

“Aye, that’s right,” agrees Scotty, nodding amicably.  He’s delightfully buzzed and proud of himself.

“The kid’s Chekov.”  Kirk points a finger over his head without even looking to confirm the kid is actually lurking in the shadows.  “He maybe young but he’s one of the best navigators I’ve ever seen; knows this country better than some of the natives.”

“Doctor.”

McCoy glances at the enthusiastic kid that had been at his bedside earlier.  He follows Kirk’s finger as he points to the table next to them.

“That’s Sulu.  You need transport, he’s your guy.  I’ve seen him pull some of the fastest horses out of thin air.”  Kirk’s still sullen but there’s pride in his voice as he introduces his merry band of outlaws.

“And you’ve already met Uhura.” 

She’s standing by the entrance, the same unforgiving statue McCoy remembers from his office.  She looks at him passively as though she’s still passing judgment on his worth.  Under her intense gaze, McCoy worries he will be found wanting.

“Our translator.  It’s much easier to cross territories when you have someone that can speak the language.  And just between you and me,” Kirk whispers conspiratorially, “she’s one hell of a shot.”

It’s not what McCoy had pictured when he heard talk of an outlaw gang.  This was a mismatch quilt of people who seemed to come together to live by their own rules.  There is a story here for each one of them.  Good people just don’t choose this life- he was a shining example of how far one has to fall to find themselves this far out.

“Gang, this is Doctor Leonard McCoy.  He’s going to be staying with us for awhile.”

McCoy’s head snaps around as his brain catches up to that nugget of information buried in the introductions.  “The hell I am.”  He wants to punch the smug boldness right out of Kirk.  He’s been kidnapped, bashed in the head, and performed surgery- his tolerance and goodwill has reached zero.  “You can’t...”

Kirk cuts him off, his voice louder than the doctor’s protest but perhaps nothing is louder than the gun he places on the table with a thud.  “I can.  You said Pike had a chance as long as you could keep the infection under control, now you can only do that if you stick around.”

“Or you let me take him back to my office.  It’s a sight better there than out here in the middle of nowhere.”  McCoy scowls like a child, knows he can’t win this argument no matter how right he is.  A bullet always trumps logic.

“We can’t do that,” says Jim, almost apologetically.  “It’s not safe.”

“And it’s safe here with all you gun carrying outlaws?”  Kirk moves so fast, McCoy can hardly track it.  He’s out of his chair with his hand around the doctor’s arm, dragging him along before McCoy even realizes he’s moving.

“I told you words hurt,” scolds Kirk, not letting up his tight grip.  “These are good people.”

McCoy digs his feet in, the abruptness enough to dislodge Kirk’s grip.  “Good people don’t kidnap, steal, and get into gunfights.”

“That... is a matter of circumstance.”  Kirk opens his mouth to say more but stops as a shadow falls over them.  “Ah, Spock.  You read my mind,” he says, taking the clothing out of his hands.

“I thought the doctor would like a change of clothes.”

“This is Spock.  He’s the one who’s been looking after Pike,” informs Kirk, taking the easy out. 

McCoy takes the clothing from Kirk.  It would be nice to get cleaned up and out of the clothes drenched with sticky blood.  He turns to thank Spock personally, when he gets a good look at the man.  “Good _god,_ man.  What the hell happened to your ears?”

“I am a member of the Vulcan clan,” he states matter-of-factly.  “It is a rite of passage to change our ears.  It is a symbol and source of pride amongst my people.”

McCoy gapes at him.  The whole concept seems barbaric to him.  He’s seen the results of a few traditions performed by the _noble savages_ of this land and while some philosophies he can get behind, anything that involves mutilation isn’t one of them.  “I’ve heard of that tribe.  Lots of mysticism.  Supposedly you bleed green blood.”

“I assure you, doctor, Vulcans...”

“Save the cultural lessons for a different day,” interrupts Kirk putting a hand up to cease Spock’s lesson.  He feels tired, a headache’s starting to form behind his eyes and he just wants the day to be over, but knows it’s just the start of a long battle.  “We need to find some place for McCoy to sleep.”  He carefully ignores the way the doctor mashes his teeth together.  He wants to shout that they don’t make it a standard to hold innocent people against their will but desperate times call for desperate measures and right now they’re so desperate they can’t afford morals.  All things considered, McCoy is taking the whole situation rather well, Kirk’s positive he would be putting up more of a struggle if he were in the man’s position but then again he excels at being a pain in the ass.

Spock tilts his head to the side in contemplation.  “Tonight the lunar cycle holds a cultural significance for my people.  If you wish you can lodge the doctor in my tent as I had plans to participate in the ceremony all night.”  Kirk begins to nod his head in acceptance when Spock adds, “It is centrally located and I will be just outside which will aid in discouraging the doctor from attempting to flee during the night.”

McCoy has heard many reasons to be weary of running into natives, their savagery and foreign ways preceding them.  Spock’s cold detachment while he was helping Pike hadn’t won Leonard over but Spock sabotaging his escape before he even had time to contemplate it is what is really antagonizing him now.  He wants to stomp his foot like a petulant child that’s not getting his way but before he can even muster a verbal assault, Kirk is dragging him along again.

“Thank you Mr Spock, that’s a good plan,” Kirk calls over his shoulder.  McCoy harshly rips his arm out of Kirk’s grip and he turns to glare back at the doctor who’s stopped dead in his tracks, arms crossed, and is glaring right back.  If looks could kill, Kirk’s sure McCoy could pull it off.

“I know how to walk,” snarls McCoy.  He’s really quite tired of being gang pressed into doing things.

Jim raised his hands in surrender before gesturing McCoy to continue at his own pace.  It takes another moment for the stare down to end and the doctor resign himself to his fate.

Under other circumstances the night would be quite beautiful.  The moon is incredibly large and full and the silence is peaceful instead of worrisome.  Despite the appearance of paradise, McCoy feels like he’s a condemned man being walked towards the noose. 

It isn’t hard to figure out which tent belongs to Spock, it’s exactly what McCoy was expecting, a real life manifestation of a teepee that’s depicted in the Wild West books his mother used to read to him as a child.  It stands out against the collection of standard military tents that are erected to form the gang’s little community, just like Spock stands apart from the rest of his companions; different but somehow the same.

He steps into the tent and gapes; the tapestries hanging are intricate and beautiful, the blankets and furs captivating in their foreignness.  He sits down on the bed, too busy taking in his surroundings to notice from where Kirk pulls the length of rope.

“Hold out your hands,” commands Jim, his voice deceptively soft making the order almost seem like a request.  His jaw is locked, prepared for a fight but his eyes are remorseful at the task.

“Is that really necessary?” McCoy’s voice is quiet, defeated and almost broken.  It’s been a long day and he’s not sure he can fight anymore.  The rope symbolizes the finality of the situation in away the small spark of optimism that he keeps buried deep inside can’t ignore.  It’s night, and there’s no alcohol to keep his regular nightmares at bay, to push him into oblivion beyond thought and worry.

“I think you know that it is.”  Kirk kneels down in front of Leonard as he stretches his arms in front of him.  He gently ties the man’s wrists together; there’s no need be rough, to make this any more uncomfortable than it needs to be.  Their, _his_ , slights against the doctor are already numerous.  After he secures McCoy’s wrists he lengthens the rope and ties the other end to the bed, leaving enough of a line that McCoy can lay comfortably in any position he desires.

“In case this isn’t enough of a deterrent, Doctor, Spock will be right outside all night and you should know there are miles of dangerous desert between here and anyone.  You wouldn’t survive out there by yourself without supplies so I don’t advise it.”  He wouldn’t blame McCoy for running, hell, he’d make a point of it but he really doesn’t want to have to track out into the desert tomorrow morning to find the man’s remains.  He hopes the brains it takes to practice medicine will be enough to keep McCoy from the youthful stupidity that guides his own hands so often.

McCoy doesn’t answer.  His pessimistic side can conjure up the dangers and faults to running in ways Kirk has probably never considered.  Silently, he lays down and rolls over so his back is to his captor.  The fake niceties and disingenuous concern is more than he can bear in this situation.  It would be kinder if they were all crueler, if they lived up to the tales of barbarians that sting like scorpions.  At least it wouldn’t blur the lines of McCoy’s predicament.

Kirk doesn’t say anything else and McCoy can hear the scuff of his boots as he leaves the tent.  It’s the first time they’ve left him alone and he feels well and truly alone, more so than he has in awhile.  He clenches his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable pain his nightmares bring and drifts off to the soft chanting of Spock outside.


	4. Chapter 3

 

He can feel the stiff coldness that’s starting to set in, the dead weight in his arms making them comfortably numb.  The wracked sobs in the next room have quieted.  He wishes he could cry, could scream and shout, tear the room apart, to feel... anything but the numbness that’s wrapped itself around him so tight its crushing the life out of him.  He sees nothing but the pink fabric of the quilt on the bed and feels like it somehow failed to keep the bed’s occupant safe.  He should put her down, but he can’t let her go...

McCoy’s eyes snap open.  The face looming over him is too close and he flinches back violently.  His breath is coming out in quick gasps and he scrambles to get away.  The edge of a bed, not his own, comes too fast; he’s toppling over, his hands unable to break his fall.  He untangles himself from his undignified heap on the floor, trying to salvage some shred of dignity.  Kirk is looking at him fondly, his bright blue eyes unable to hide the hint of amusement at his current position.

“Sleep well, Bones?”  he chirps, moving to untie the doctor’s wrists.

“Just peachy,” Leonard grumbles.  He gets to his feet quickly, trying to stave off some embarrassment.  He rubs his wrists, trying to wipe away the phantom feeling that he’s still tied, still as helpless as he knows he truly is.  Kirk has his buddy smile on again, like McCoy has _chosen_ to be his acquaintance and he has to wonder if the guy hasn’t been thrown from his horse a couple times too many and sustained brain damage.  He’s not looking for friends, certainly not anyone here and especially Kirk, who’s too bold and cocky and brazen for his own good.

Jim cocks his head to the side, aborting a chuckle at the doctor’s grumpiness.  He’s surlier than Scotty and Sulu in the morning combined, almost bordering on Uhura without her morning coffee prickly, he thinks.  It’s also kind of endearing to find someone antagonistic in the face of danger.  “Come on.  Figure we should probably feed you before you check on your patient,” he offers, leaving the tent with the expectation that McCoy follow.

Life is starting to reclaim the camp.  There are no hard and fast rules, one of the perks of living on the edge of society and without an official start to the ‘work day’ everyone is free to roll out of bed at their leisure for the most part.  Kirk isn’t surprised by who he finds already sitting at the table awaiting breakfast, carefully pulling out the chair between Chekov and himself for the doctor.  It never hurts to reinforce the doctor’s position in this situation.  The man seems just pessimistic enough to place himself in front of the firing squad before his time and Jim is trying to keep his hand from being forced for both their sakes.  He likes to think there’s a limit to how far he’ll go, a line he won’t cross, but knows that when people he cares about are on the line, the dark depths he’ll traverse are endless. 

Chekov is bright-eyed and eager to start the day, offering Jim and McCoy a wide smile as they sit down.  He isn’t dissuaded by McCoy’s standoffish glare, simply slides over the pot of coffee towards his companions.  Jim almost envies how the kid can attack each day with such joy, and makes it a personal mission to prevent the dark ominous world from destroying his light.  He’s fresh and new, not hardened and discouraged like the doctor and Jim.

“Morning, Chekov.”  Kirk grabs the offered coffee, pulling two mugs close and filling them both.  He eyes the kid’s plate.  “What has Mr Sulu prepared for us today?”  They had taken turns preparing meals, quickly learning who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near open flame and who has some questionable ideas about what constituted food.  Scotty used too much alcohol in dishes, while Spock’s ‘traditional’ dishes weren’t exactly suitable for their palates.  Like himself, Uhura burnt everything and while Chekov could cook, having one of the same two dishes every day wasn’t appealing.  That left the job of chef to Pike and Sulu; yet another thing they were losing with the Captain injured.

Chekov’s smile grows even wider.  “Mr Sulu has graced us with eggs, bacon and hash-browns this morning.”

Sulu approaches the table and sets the two plates in his hands down in front of McCoy and Kirk, a smirk of self-satisfaction painting his lips.  McCoy gives him a nod of thanks, because no matter the situation, his mamma did teach him manners.

“Ah,” chirps Jim, “I see our trip to Babel was lucrative.”

Sulu’s eyes light up.  Nothing makes someone a hero around camp faster than bringing back fresh, edible supplies that provide some variety from their normal stores of food.  They have a few chickens to produce eggs but they’re usually dedicated to ingredients for meals to feed everyone and not consumed on their own.  Having enough for everyone to just enjoy fried eggs has become a slight luxury. He goes back to Scotty’s homemade stove, just another example of his engineering brilliance, and loads up a plate of his own.

McCoy’s just about to shovel his first mouthful in, because now that he sees food, he realizes just how starving he is, when Kirk swipes his knife away.  He turns and glares, prepared to fight for his right to eat, when Kirk shrugs his shoulders.

“Can’t be giving you a weapon,” he offers lamely, like he doesn’t believe McCoy would be smart enough to make use of the knife but feels compelled to lord the captive/captor concept over his head.

“You think I can’t sever your jugular with a fork?” he deadpans, because it is the truth, but an unlikely way to go about things.  And really part of him wants to do it on principle, just to wipe the smile off of Kirk’s face, to get him out from under his skin.

“You probably could,” Jim concedes, “but civilized people use knives.”

McCoy’s about to retort with something about Kirk not knowing what civilized is, when Scotty stalks into the tent like something that’s been dead for days.  He sits down across the table from Kirk and lets his head fall to the table.

“Rough night, Mr Scott?” asks Jim without any real concern, like it’s an everyday occurrence.

“Oh, aye.”  He pries his head off the table.  “I had ta sample the whisky from the still an’ I don’t mind tellin’ ya, this batch packs a wee bit of a punch.  Is that bacon?” he asks finally noticing the plates of food in front of his companions.

“That stuff is hazardous to your health, Scotty.  I think McCoy has enough to deal with at the moment.”  Kirk says it with a guilty smirk.  There have been plenty of nights they have all sat around the fire, with their life in their hands partaking in the Scotsman’s beverages.

“There’s still plenty of food on the stove,” Sulu informs Scotty, making short work of his own plate.

 “That’s brilliant.”  Scotty jumps up from the table with boundless energy that wasn’t present at his arrival and begins fixing himself a plate like he hasn’t seen food before.

They eat in silence, everyone but the doctor too busy shoveling food in their mouths to come up for air, let alone engage in conversation.  McCoy eats a few mouthfuls but can’t manage much.  It has nothing to do with the taste, he’d give his complements to the chef under different circumstances, but the ropes this morning and the knife a few moments ago are painful reminders of just how well and truly screwed he is.  His days are numbered, all tied to his usefulness in aiding with an injury that will eventually be healed.  There’s also his obligation to the town; the shipment of supplies he needed were stolen in transit, and Rigelian Fever has started to make an appearance in the area.  At least if he drank himself to death in town, there would be a body to signify the town had to get a new doctor; would the townsfolk wait until it’s too late if they didn’t find his maggot-riddled corpse?  His stomach is in knots at the prospect of once again failing those he was supposed to protect.

The hand on his shoulder startles him.  His head snaps up to see Kirk starting at him expectantly, as though he’s missed something important while he was trapped inside his own head.

“Your patient, Doctor?”

“Right.”  He gets to his feet despite the sudden and almost crippling weight of despair that’s gripped his heart. 

When they get to the tent that Pike is tucked away in, it’s Uhura sitting with the man instead of Spock who had been playing nursemaid until the doctor’s forced arrival.  She glances at them briefly, rewetting the washcloth and applying it to the ailing man’s forehead.  She seems like a tough cookie to crack and out of all of them, at least she seems a little more inclined to maintain the boundary of captor and captive.

“Were you here all night?” asks Kirk hanging by the door.

“Spock would have missed his ceremony if I hadn’t volunteered,” she replies like there was really no choice in the matter.  She stands gracefully, vacating the set next to the bed and heads to the door.  “I’ll leave you to it, Doctor.”  Her voice is a little more reserved this morning, more vulnerable, diffidently not the hard critical edginess offered to him the first day.

McCoy begins his examination; taking note that Kirk stays near the door like an invisible wall is keeping him from actually stepping in the room.  It only amplifies the youthfulness of the man’s voice when he asks, “Is there anything you need?”

Leonard wants to say yes, he wants his freedom, but Pike does need him if he’s going to survive and the kicked puppy look Kirk is sporting stirs something sympathetic within him.  He shakes his head no; Spock has stocked the tent well with their stolen medical supplies and anything different he would need now, they’re not likely to have on the premise.

“We’ll all be outside,” explains Jim.  He hopes it’s the only dissuasion the doctor needs to stay with his patient and not try anything stupid; he’d rather do this with the man’s cooperation but he’s desperate enough to become everything he hates if it means it’ll help his mentor.  He walks away feeling helpless and responsible, the weight of the future bearing down on him.

* * *

 

McCoy’s in the middle of organizing the medical supplies in a manner that makes sense to someone who knows what everything is and how to use it, when Chekov comes in with a tray of food in his arms.  He entertains the thought of asking the kid if he has nerve damage in his face because the smile he wears seems permanent.

“I’ve brought you some lunch, Doctor.”  He sets the tray down on the only spot McCoy hasn’t covered with supplies and steps back out of the way, but doesn’t leave.

“Thanks.”  He pulls the chair over and sits down in front of his bowl.  It’s some kind of stew, hearty and warm with a buttery biscuit on the side.  The unease that stole his appetite this morning is vanquished by hunger; it’s been two days since he actually sat down and consumed a meal.  Sulu has clearly missed his calling as a cook by throwing his lot in with this group of people.  He’s savoring his latest mouthful when he notices Chekov is still hovering.  He looks at the kid expectantly.  Kirk has probably told him to keep track of the silverware in case McCoy tries to fashion a weapon out of a spoon, and really, now that he’s here in the ‘medical’ tent he has access to actual knives.

Chekov’s smile is gone, replaced with worry as he wrings his hands together.  He looks nervously between the doctor and Pike, unsure if he’s prepared for the answer to his question.  “How is he?”

McCoy puts his spoon down, and goes to stand beside the boy, sharing his vigil of the ailing man.  From what he’s seen so far, the gang seems to really care about their sick comrade.  He’s been around the sick and dying most of his life, both for his chosen profession and spying as a child on the patients his father treated, but remembers how hard it can be for someone for the first time, when it’s someone that matters to you.  “He stands a better chance now.  The fever’ll break once I get the infection under control, and there’s no reason to think that won’t happen now.”  He tries for optimism, because he doesn’t think the hard truth will do the kid much good.

He didn’t outright lie.  Most of the recovery will depend on the patient and he doesn’t know enough about the man to determine if he’s a fighter or not.  McCoy’s determined to give him every chance but sometimes it isn’t enough.  He hopes this is a case when medicine prevails, not just because that’s why he became a doctor or part of him doesn’t want to see the impact this man’s death will have on these people, but the dark part of him knows his demise will all the more painful if he fails.

“You can stay if you like, keep him company,” offers McCoy.  The fever gripping the Captain means the man isn’t coherent but it seems like Chekov needs it.  Sometimes being a doctor doesn’t mean treating physical wounds.

“Thank you, Doctor.”  Chekov sounds genuinely grateful, taking the chair next to the bed and settling in for what looks like a long watch.  He chats with Pike, telling him the latest shenanigans taking place around the camp, going silent to watch with fascination when the doctor administers the next dose of antibiotic.

* * *

 

It’s Kirk that comes and collects him for dinner, hanging around the door with his diamond smile.  “Let’s eat.”

McCoy rolls his eyes, he’s too tired to fight a battle he can’t win; Kirk clearly doesn’t come with an ‘off switch.’  He shuffles behind Kirk not really paying attention to the man’s yammering, convinced the kid likes the sound of his own voice and has never considered the virtue of silence.  What does catch his attention is the sudden direction of the one-sided conversation turning to setting McCoy up with a tent to call his own and making him comfortable and really, what the hell?  McCoy’s not some stray dog to be scooped up and given a proper home; he had a life god damn it, as sad and as miserable as it was.

“I’m not your _guest_ , I’m your god damn hostage!”  He wonders why he has to educate his kidnapper on the proper protocol of holding a hostage. “You can skip the pleasantries.”

Kirk looks confused, like maybe McCoy is an especially stupid child.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean we all know that after I help your friend in there, I’m going to end up face down in a shallow grave out there.”  He points to the wide expanse of nothing all around them. “I’ve seen your faces, you’re not going to let me go.”

“That’s true,” concedes Kirk, with his cocksure smile, like this is some cosmic joke McCoy isn’t getting yet, “you have seen our faces, so why are you helping Pike?”

McCoy pauses.  Why is he giving aid to someone who is more than likely going continue to hurt others once he’s back on his feet, especially when his payment for service will be a bullet?  The righteous thing to do would be to let the man die in a final act of defiance against the gang, and perhaps save a life or two as they continue their raids one man down.  He’s a doctor and chose that profession to save life, even when that life belongs to a murder.  He will save a killer even when he was unable to save the life most precious to him.  “Because I’m a doctor.”

“We hold your life in our hands and you hold an important life to us in your hands.  That’s all we want from you.”  Jim claps him on the shoulder, like it somehow makes the whole situation right.  “Let’s eat, Bones.  I’m starving.”

McCoy takes a deep breath to gather his strength.  Deep down he knows Kirk is going to be the death of him and it’s exhausting.


	5. Chapter 4

The next day it’s Spock that wanders in to check on Pike.  He says nothing to McCoy who’s focusing on changing the bandages wrapped around the lower portion of what’s left of the Captain’s leg, just sits down and begins mopping the ailing man’s brow.  McCoy’s been taking notes on just who he’s dealing with, noticing the subtly between his captors.  Spock, for all that he’s seen him, has been quiet and straight to the point, cold but shows some under lying admiration for the man in the bed.

“You did a half decent job of tending to his foot before I was brought here,” he offers to break Spock’s icy silence.  It’s not a lie either, given that none of them have any actual medical knowledge, things could have much worse had Pike not received what basic attention he was given.  He’s not about to sing the man’s praises, the whole accomplice to kidnapping notwithstanding, he doesn’t want Spock or the rest of the gang thinking they’re medical practitioners for the sake of any future patients. 

“I am well versed in the traditional healing methods of my people, Doctor.  They do however seem inadequate in the face of such weapons as those carried by most settlers.” 

There’s an underlying note in Spock’s monotone reply that McCoy almost wants to think is an accusation, like maybe the settlers are playing dirty in their mass land grab from a people who had already called dibs.  “Still, it made the difference between me seeing a living patient and a dead one.”

“Neither of our efforts will yield success if you cannot focus and rid the Captain of the infection.”

There’s something about Spock that irks him and maybe he’s reading too much into the matter-of-factness in which Spock speaks, but he’s really sure there might be an insult in there.  At the very least there’s doubt as to his skills.  Under normal circumstances, he’d have to fall on the side of caution and agree the distance between certainty of life and the chance of death are wider than his reach but he’s here under duress, and damn it, they shouldn’t have taken him if they don’t have faith in his ability.  “Now see here, you green blooded savage; if you have a problem with my work, maybe you should have kidnapped yourself another doctor!”

“Illogical, Doctor,” he replies in his steadfast even tone.  “You were the closest and most highly trained medical practitioner in the area.  Furthermore your statement is incorrect.  Out of both our people, mine lives off the land in peace and harmony with all creation, while yours has made it a mission to hunt down the tribes of this land for the purpose of scalping the people to collect the bounty for their death.  So please tell me, whom does the word savage more accurately describe?”

It’s an argument that could go round and round; both citing cases that support their position in the debate of cultural temperament and he just doesn’t see the point in expending the energy despite how bad he wants to win against his new found nemesis.  He settles for going for the obvious and less disputed.  “If you’re so civilized, what are you doing hanging around with a bunch of outlaws that kidnap unsuspecting doctors from their homes?”

“While I do not agree with every part of Mr Kirk’s plan, the outcome is the most logical conclusion to obtaining our goals.  I also support Jim’s plans out of my obligation and loyalty to him.”

That catches McCoy’s attention.  “Your obligation to him?”

If it’s even possible, Spock looks even more serious. “Yes.  I owe him my life and the lives of the remaining members of my tribe.”

“A life debt, Mr Spock?”  Now he’s intrigued in the story that has brought this outsider to the group.  He’d heard there was no honor amongst thieves but this group seems to demonstrate loyalty.

“Correct.  Jim was a Lieutenant in the army regiment that was sent to negotiate settlement with my tribe.  Despite the state of negotiations they received instructions to slaughter my people as a quick means to obtaining the land.  Jim refused to follow through with the orders.  Instead he abandoned his post to come and warn my people.”  Spock remoistens the cloth and places it back on Pike’s sweat drenched forehead.

McCoy watches, intently waiting for the rest of the story.  Finally curiosity forces him to prompt the Vulcan to continue.  “And he warned your people in time?”

Spock looks thoughtful for a moment, there’s a slight break in his marble exterior.  His voice softens as he continues.  “There was not enough time to get everyone to safety.  Two-thirds of my people were slaughtered including my mother who in fact was white, and those remaining were left without a home or our traditional lands.”

“I’m sorry, Spock.”  And he is.  He’s seen the horrors of an invading force coming in and killing everything in its path, dealt with the aftermath of it all and though they aren’t friends, he wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone.  “Why aren’t you with your people now?”

“It is safer for them if I do not reside with them.  Upon the failed execution of our people, Jim was arrested for treason and sentenced to hang.  After what he risked for the Vulcan people, it was illogical to allow him to perish.  After I rescued him it became a priority for the army to apprehend us.  We are wanted by both the government and bounty hunters alike.”

“This,” Leonard gestures around them, “isn’t the best way to lay low.”  It’s an intriguing story, one he’s not sure he believes.  It’s a hard jump to make from martyr, to wanted fugitives to notorious criminals, at least as far as life expectancy goes.  Disappearing to some remote untouched part of the west and living in peace seems like the smarter play, not constantly drawing attention to themselves, even if they have gone unidentified as of yet.

“ _This_ is not entirely within your understanding.”  Spock gets up to leave, parting with, “You will keep us apprised of the Captain’s condition.”

Leonard slumps back in his chair, more confused by the situation than ever.  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” he mutters to Pike who has yet to surface to consciousness since his arrival.

* * *

 

McCoy’s days start to take on a similar pattern.  Kirk frees him from his nightly bonds and his nightmare, though he does now have a space the kid insists he calls his own, and takes him to breakfast.  He’s escorted to Pike’s tent after, where he takes over the watch from either Spock or Uhura and does what he can with his dwindling supplies.  Chekov brings him lunch and watches with fervour everything he does to tend to the injured.  Kirk comes to collect him for dinner and the whole gang comes to together, treating it like a family affair.  He partakes in a round with Scotty, though it does nothing to keep his nightmares at bay, and gets sent to bed like a disobedient child, only to do it all again the next day.

The only sense of time he has is when he’s being dragged somewhere so it startles him when Chekov brings him his lunch.  God help him, he’s starting to look forward to his daily interaction with these people.  None of these people are especially horrible in their own right, and under different circumstances he wouldn't have a problem with them, except for Kirk... and Spock; it’s hard not to have a problem with cold logic on legs.  Scotty and Sulu provide light enjoyable banter, while Uhura and Chekov engage him in mental stimulating debates; even Spock challenges him to irritating arguments and there’s just enough concern and showmanship from Kirk that he might be falling victim to the guy’s swagger.  The line, though ever present, between kidnapping and social familiarity is getting harder to discern.

The boy places the tray on the table and stands beside him.  It doesn’t take medical school to figure out that any progress that was being made in Pike’s recovery backslid this morning.  McCoy can feel the hesitation and worry coming off of Chekov like he can feel the fire on Pike’s skin.

McCoy has his own doubts about the situation.  His supply of antibiotics is diminishing and he needs to up the dose or get something stronger, neither of which he can do here.  He became a doctor so he could have control in these situations, but lately it seems that the best he can manage is to sit helplessly on the sidelines.  He wonders if maybe he should have divulged that information when they first forced him to save Pike’s life.  Maybe then they could have found someone better and he wouldn’t have to watch optimism die along with his patient.

“What’s his story,” he asks because he doesn’t have it in him to convince the kid there’s going to be a happy ending to all of this.  “Why’s he tangled up in all of this?”

Chekov doesn’t take his eyes off Pike.  “He was a Keptin in the army.  Hikaru was in his regiment and he offered to let me travel with them; my skills in exchange for shelter and food.  When he heard about what happened to the Wulcan people he decided he couldn’t serve anymore.  Certain people of influence were connected to well known criminals and paid off the army to facilitate meeting the needs of their crooked empires.  The Keptin wanted no part and took us with him.  He found Nyota and we started our search to track down Mr Kirk.  He felt responsible since it was him that got Kirk to serve in lieu of a jail sentence.”

“Kirk was in jail?  Why doesn’t that surprise me.”  He can’t suppress the eye roll.

“да, yes.  He had started hunting Nero back then, and the Keptin agreed to help after leaving the army.”

“Who’s Nero?”

“Ah, Nero killed...”

“Mr Chekov,” calls Jim, casually leaning against one of the tent poles eating an apple, “I believe you have some things to take care of.”

Chekov looks rather sheepish but jumps to attention.  “Yes sir.”  He scurries out of the tent like his boots are on fire.

Kirk doesn’t step any closer.  “How is he?”

“Who’s Nero?”  McCoy asks, not falling for Kirk’s distraction.  He has the sinking feeling he’s just been dragged into something larger than he thought.

“It’s safer if you don’t know,” counters Kirk and the dangerous look is back in his eyes.  “How’s Pike doing?”

It’s a standoff of will, each staring the other one down.  McCoy can out stubborn anyone, but he’s sure Kirk will just lie if he does manage to win.  “I’m almost out of antibiotics, not that this stuff is strong enough for how far it’s set in.”

“What does that mean for Pike?”  demands Kirk, anger tainting his voice, like McCoy has personally seen to the man’s suffering and decline.

McCoy lets out a long breath.  “He’s not going to make it if it continues on this way.”  Back against the wall, he’s not out of options but none of them are desirable or likely to prove fruitful.  “We could take him back to my office...”

Kirk’s voice starts to rise.  “We can’t do that doctor.”

Not to be out done, Leonard raises his as well.  “Why not?”

“It’s too dangerous for him!” shouts Kirk and as an afterthought adds, “and for you.  I need options, Doctor.”

“I can take the lower leg off at the knee, see if that removes enough of the infected flesh to break its hold.”

Jim is shaking his head furiously.  “No.”

He can’t do his job if his hands are constantly being tied.  “Then I need better antibiotics,” he snaps.  “Out of all the shipments you’ve stolen you should have some here.”

“We don’t have the medical shipments that were heading for Federation City!” counters Kirk and really he’s getting tired of McCoy thinking the worst of him.  Yes, the initial kidnapping looks bad, and maybe the looting of his office; but on the whole, they’ve gone out of their way to treat the man well while he’s in their stay.

Leonard scoffs, arms folded across his chest to defend against Kirk’s bullshit.  “I saw the crates when we arrived.”

Kirk looks confused for a moment before his face softens in understanding.  “That’s not medical supplies.  It’s something else... you wouldn’t understand.”

He on his feet slightly.  “Try me.”

“The medical supplies aren’t even loaded on the stagecoach, the boxes contain other things: gold, dynamite, correspondences between people that can’t afford to be connected.  It’s the only way to ship them without suspicion, then the stagecoach gets robbed and everyone believes it’s the medical supplies that’s been stolen.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“To keep their criminal dealings under wraps.  The towns are run by a criminal named Nero, he has everyone in his back pocket.  By depriving the towns of their medical supplies, they’ll become desperate enough to pay for extra security to protect their shipments or purchase them from companies he owns, either way he gets paid for taking the supplies in the first place and using the crates as a method to transport things in secret.”

“Surely the law can put an end to it,” counters McCoy.

Kirk shakes his head in dismay.  “The law hasn’t been in these parts for twenty years.  Anyone sporting a badge is bought and paid for by Nero.”

“And what does any of this have to do with you, with them?”

“Someone has to stop him,” says Kirk, with more honesty than McCoy has ever heard in his whole life, while knowing deep down, it’s only half the truth.

“If you had stronger antibiotics, would it help him?” asks Jim.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” offers Leonard.  It might be too late no matter what he tries, the infection too deep to kill.

“I’ll find you some.”  Kirk strides out of the tent with renewed purpose and determination.

McCoy collapses back in his chair.  The puzzle pieces are piling up and he no longer has a picture for how they should align.  “Nabbed by a god damn outlaw with a moral compass.  What is the world coming to?”  He likes his bad guys to wear the black hat and the good guys the white, just like in the stories his mamma used to read to him.

* * *

 

Kirk rolls the map out across the table as everyone takes a seat.  This is something he can do, action, not waiting around for someone else to pull out the win.  He’s not the only one that feels that way, the atmosphere in the room is alive with an energy that has been missing since he and Spock carried Pike, broken and bleeding, back to camp.

“We need better supplies if Pike’s going to make it, so what do we know?” prompts Kirk, pointing at the map.  He has the best and brightest in his company and he’s going to make use of them.

“Babel has agreed to pay for Nero’s protection,” Sulu throws out, pointing to the town on the map.

“Yes,” adds Chekov, “they should be getting a shipment tomorrow on the nine-fifteen train that runs along this line here.”

Scotty lights up.  “That’s a pretty narrow canyon it has to run through.  Easy for rocks to build up on the tracks if there were say, an explosion?”

Kirk screws up his face.  “We’re not going to blow up the canyon, Scotty.  We need the train’s contents in one piece.”

“We also do not wish to put the passengers in any undo harm,” Spock adds to tamp down the Scotsman’s enthusiasm.

“It would just be a wee explosion.”  Mr Scott pouts, like his favorite toy has been taken away, folding his arms across his chest.

“This portion of the track had to be blasted out of the rocks making the sides of the canyon no more than ten feet away on either side,” explains Chekov.  “It would be possible for someone to jump on the train at that point.”

A dangerous glint appears in Jim’s eyes as he studies the rail line on the map.  “The train has to slow down to go around this corner right?”

Scotty nods.  “Aye.”

“We’ll jump onto the train at the narrow part of the canyon, creating a distraction and pulling the armed guards to the back.  Uhura and Sulu should be able to board the train there, near the front.  You’ll take the engine and force them to stop.  Spock and Scotty will be waiting down the track, here, with a wagon to offload supplies on to.  And should we fail to get the train to stop, Mr Scott, you can blow the track ahead of the train and derail the engine.  We find the medical supplies and get them back to help the Captain.”

“And what about the doctor?  We cannot leave him here unsupervised,” reminds Spock.

Jim runs the scenario through his head.  Spock is right about not leaving McCoy at camp alone, both because he might chose to run and if something happens to all of them, McCoy has no idea where he is nor how to get himself and Pike back to civilization.  The plan needs three teams of two and if someone is performing guard duty, they’re one man down... unless... “Mr Chekov, you’ll stay behind and look after Captain Pike, I’ll take care of the doctor.”

Spock raised an eyebrow.  “I must advise against this course of action.”

“He’s not exactly a gun slinger,” adds Uhura.

Jim rolls his eyes.  “He’s going to love it; I’ll keep him with me.  Besides, he’ll know exactly what we need.”  Everyone clearly has their doubts but they set to work preparing for their parts in the plan.  It’s a day’s ride, leaving little room for error in the preparation.  All he has to do now is come up with a way to get McCoy to go along with their plan.

 


	6. Chapter 5

Dinner that night is odd.  The only ones that show up are Kirk and Chekov and neither one mentions the absence of the others or why they’re eating before dark.  McCoy doesn’t ask, figures he’s better off not knowing what illegal activities they’re probably up to.  He has more pressing concerns like Pike’s declining condition and what breakthrough he needs to come up with to save the man’s life if Kirk doesn’t produce the new antibiotics.  Still, he can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles in his stomach at the sudden change of routine.

His unease ramps up tenfold when Kirk wakes him in the middle of the night.  He’s tired and cranky at the intrusion but the first words out of his mouth at Kirk’s solemn look is, “Is it Pike?”

“It’s time to go, doctor.”  Kirk unties the rope from the thick wood beam running up the side of the tent but doesn’t untie his hands.  Instead he pulls him along with the rope, like a stubborn horse, out into the night.  The Camp is eerily quiet, as though Jim has sent them all away to keep them from being accomplices to the crime. 

McCoy’s heart starts to beat in triple time as he’s led towards the corral and a pair of horses that are saddled and ready to go.  He still hasn’t gotten an answer to his question but this change in the status quo is leading him to assume the worst.  _If_ Pike is dead, he feels rather bad that, like he let the man down, even if they’d never actually met.  He’s not sure if confirmation of the man’s status will make his death more or less welcome.

Jim climbs into the saddle easily, rope still in hand like he’s taking a lame horse out to be shot.  “On the horse, McCoy, let’s go,” he says solemn and serious.

Leonard stands there absolutely gobsmacked for a moment.  He knew this was his end, knows it’s been coming for days but now that’s it here he feels lost and panicky.  His options are so limited he’s down to go quietly or go loudly, but either way he’s going to go and he doesn’t know what causing a scene will really get him anymore.  Any options he can piece together for escape all come to the same conclusion: death and the thought of being picked apart by animals in the desert or slowly bleeding to death by Kirk’s hand are unappealing.  There’s nothing left but to go quietly and hope for a merciful end.  He’s suffered already, been suffering every day since he lost everything, and kind of wants his death to be a sweet release from all that, not another painstaking trial.

It’s cumbersome but he manages to pull himself up on the horse; it would be worse if his hands were tied behind his back.  Silently, Kirk’s horse saunters forward pulling the rope tied to McCoy along with it out into the dark desert.  They travel in silence, Kirk never saying a word and while McCoy had wanted nothing more than for the brash kid to shut up the entire time he’s known him, now it feels morose and cruel. 

The darkness gives way to light.  Mauves and reds paint the desert as the sun starts its arduous journey across the sky.  As the last of the stars twinkle out of sight, Leonard is mesmerized by the beauty surrounding him.  It’s ironic in a way that has defined his entire life so it seems fitting that this is the way he goes out; small and insignificant amongst a beauty he can’t touch.  The journey seems longer than reasonable but maybe in some twisted way had they stayed close to camp, his body lying so near would paint a rather Poe inspired portrait that would haunt them all in the days to come.

He watches Kirk slide out of the saddle and his unease starts the frantic and mad climb to claw its way out of his throat.  He’s not sure if he’s relieved or not that his life doesn’t flash before his eyes in the face of his demise.  There’s too much failure he’d rather not relive.  He’s prided himself on having something biting to say in hopeless situation but for the life of him he can’t think of anything to spit out now.  He manages to dismount without ending up on his ass and is surprised by how steady his legs are.

Jim wanders to the edge, there’s enough slack in the rope that McCoy doesn’t have to be glued to his hip, and searches the narrow passage carved in the rocks for any sign of their train.  He can’t imagine what’s going through the doctor’s head, and he kind of feels bad for any distress he’s caused, but the macabre silence that shrouded their journey meant no questions and no fights about what he knows deep down McCoy will protest.  He’s pretty sure he can count on the guy to blindly follow if he isn’t made aware of anything beyond the narrow path he leaves him.

The minutes tick by and Kirk does nothing but watch the horizon.  Leonard knows he should be grateful for every minute but he thinks the waiting might be worse than actually taking his last breath.  It’s poor form to kill and unarmed man to begin with, but making him wait, drawing it out for no reason whatsoever is just plain rude.  McCoy finally cracks, every emotion possible spilling out in one messy hoarse cry.  “Get on with it already!”

Jim snaps to attention, looking at Leonard curiously.  “Get on with what Bones?”  The glare he gets in response says more than words ever could.  “What you thought I was going to shoot you?  That hurts.”  He brushes the accusation off as a comical misunderstanding but it stings a little that even though he did lead McCoy to think that, McCoy still believes after everything, him capable of killing someone in cold blood for no reason.  “You haven’t done your job yet.”

There’s a little relief that his patient hasn’t died after all but the balm quickly wipes away.  “Then what are we doing out here?”  Anger has taken over, pushing everything else to the background.  He’s not interested in games anymore; it’s his life they’re playing with, god damn it.

“Oh, we’re going to rob a train,” he says as though it’s a regular everyday mundane occurrence like getting dressed or breathing.

McCoy can feel his face go blank as his brain stutters to a halt.  Clearly he’s lost his ability to understand the English language because the words don’t make sense, even in the strange world of knowing Jim Kirk.  “We’re what?”

“Robbing a train,” he restates plainly.  “You need antibiotics, Nero has a shipment coming in, you know exactly which ones you need,” he shrugs his shoulders, “so we’re going to rob a train.”  Just to prove his point a train whistle blasts somewhere in the background.

Maybe if McCoy breaks things down into small manageable chunks, he thinks he might be able to make some sense of his new reality.  There are no visible train tracks but he can hear one in the distance yet there’s an even bigger problem in Kirk’s statement.  “Back up to the _we’re_ part.”

“We’re, you and me.”  As an afterthought he adds, “And the others but they’re waiting further down the line.  _We’re_ going to distract the guards.”

It’s a dream, he has to be dreaming.  That is the only thing that can explain how his life has gone down the rabbit hole in such a spectacular fashion.  He’s going to wake up, nursing one hell of a hangover, in his office and all of this will become an alcohol fueled memory.  “Of course we are,” he agrees nonchalantly before snapping, “are you out of your corn-fed mind!”

Jim lights up like the sun. “That’s the spirit, Bones.”  He walks closer to the doctor and unties his hands.  Before McCoy can lower them, Jim snatches the left one and ties the rope carefully around it.  He then ties the other end to his right hand, binding them together with a long tether.  He knows the doctor isn’t a coward- he’s seen it up close- but most people don’t believe in leaping without looking, especially when they’re not on board with the plan to begin with.  The line is an insurance policy, to make sure he’s not jumping alone when the time comes.

The gravity of the situation becomes more real as Kirk ties them together.  The urge to punch Kirk is resurfacing, begging for an outlet; the insufferable brat has been stoking the fire for days and all the heat in such a confined space is building pressure.  “I’m a doctor, not a train robber!”

As usual, Jim appears unflappable.  “Today you are.  Come on Bones, it’s going to be fun.” 

Leonard knows fun. It’s been awhile, but he remembers what it is, and being led to the edge of a cliff is not it.  He doesn’t need the plan spelled out to him; god help him, he can almost understand how Kirk’s mind works.  The only positive about what’s going to happen is that when they jump, they’ll fall to their deaths.  The train is in clear view, eating up the track like a ravenous animal.  As Kirk braces himself for the jump all McCoy can choke out is, “I hate this!”

“I know you do,” answers Jim, already leaping through the air.

 


	7. Chapter 6

It’s not Jim’s most graceful landing; landing so hard the wind is knocked out of him and he’s sprawled out over the top of the railway car, just a little shy of dignified.  Jumping from a stationary platform to a moving target will do that to you.  All things considered, they didn’t miss and fall under the wheels or in a bloody broken heap on the canyon floor.  He turns to McCoy, who’s in the exact same position, locking eyes for a second before they both start laughing like maniacs.  Near death defying stunts deserve a moment of giddiness, and it’s the first time he thinks he’s seen the doctor genuinely smile.

The moment is short lived, the smile slides off McCoy’s face so fast, Kirk almost doubts it was there.  It’s the fear in the other man’s eyes that spurs him to action.  The motion of the train that’s still clicking along at an impressive pace combined with the smooth surface of the roof, that he barely managed to land on, is causing McCoy to slip off the edge.

Jim scrambles up onto his knees and throws himself towards McCoy.  He just brushes Leonard’s out stretched hand but it’s enough to latch on.  He can feel his muscles straining against the weight as his burden dangles precariously against the side of the car.  There’s nothing to hold onto and if he slips, they both will meet a terrible fate underneath the unforgiving steel of the train’s wheels.  Without purchase, Jim is sliding forward, lowering McCoy closer to the ground.  If he can’t save the doctor, he won’t have long to dwell on his failure; the tether tying their other hands together will pull him off the train once the line goes tight enough.  Both of their lives are in his hands and he can feel McCoy’s hand starting to slip.

McCoy holds on for all he’s worth, his hand linked to Kirk’s in an iron death grip that may not prove enough.  His arm’s already strained and the jostling from the train is only causing further stress on his taught muscles.  His free arm flails uselessly, unable to find anything to grab on to.  The air’s biting into him as the train speeds on, oblivious to its stowaway’s plight.  The ground is a blur but the large black wheels turning tirelessly are in sharp focus.  He can feel himself inch closer to death, letting out a sharp hiss of pain as his leg brushes the edge of one of the wheels, the friction biting and burning through his pant leg and ripping open his skin.

Kirk grits his teeth harder, his jaw aching as sharply as his arm.  McCoy’s cry of pain spurs loose a reserve of strength he didn’t know he had.  Slowly they make progress in the right direction until the doctor is back on solid ground, or rather the top of the car.  They lay there, breathing deeply as the adrenaline starts to fade and time begins to slow.

“Let’s not do that again,” huffs Kirk.

“Took the words right out of my mouth, kid,” agrees McCoy, thankful to not be a mangled heap on the tracks.  Between each shuddering breath he alternates between being thankful Kirk saved his life and resentful for the fact that it was Kirk.  The pendulum of his consciousness wavers between accepting it as an act of a good man, cause Kirk could have kept himself out of danger by cutting the rope and letting him fall, and it simply being a means to an end.  They still need him to help Pike and he can’t do that if he’s dead on the tracks.  Mostly, his brush with death in such a wild fashion has left him abundantly grateful and full of adrenaline.

Jim reaches over and unties the rope from around his and Leonard’s wrists.  The doctor’s not going anywhere now and it’s only going to lead them into danger through the rest of his plan.  “Come on.”  He rolls to his side and carefully gets his feet under him before helping McCoy to his feet. 

McCoy stumbles slightly, pain shooting up his leg from his calf.  Twisting around, he gets his first good look at the damage.  The wound is angry red, bleeding mildly and hurts just looking at it.  He can put weight on it, limp on it but anything more than that seems unlikely.

“Are you alright?” asks Jim, eyeing the ribbon of blood snaking down the doctor’s leg.  He pulls the edges of his vest to the side and hikes up his shirt to tear a strip of fabric off the bottom of his undershirt and hands it to McCoy.

He takes the offered fabric and wraps it tightly around his calf to stop the bleeding.  It’s barely sufficient but it will hold for awhile, assuming Kirk doesn’t have any other harebrained schemes in the works.  “I’ll be fine,” he assures, wondering if claiming possible death might get him out of Kirk’s heist.

“This way.”  Kirk takes off towards the end of the car, looking proficient in his actions unlike McCoy who wobbles like a newborn lamb, none of which has anything to do with his injury.  He wonders just how often this ragtag group of outlaws commit heists on moving targets.

They reach the end of the car, and Jim shimmies down the ladder until he’s standing on the narrow platform in front of the door to the inside of the car.  He waits patiently for McCoy to do the same, ready with a steady hand in case they have a repeat of earlier.  If not for the kidnapping and the pending robbery, they would almost seem like a dynamic duo, getting into mischief as the result of idle hands.  The doctor looks expectantly at him, like he’s trying to call Jim’s bluff.  Kirk just flashes his devil may care smile back and pulls out the handkerchiefs he had folded in his back pocket.  “So no one can see your face.” The last thing they need is for someone to get a good look and finally produce a decent wanted poster that can identify any of them.

McCoy huffs, but snatched the handkerchief and fastens it in the same fashion he watched Kirk.  Things are getting more ridiculous by the second and all he can picture is the write up in the local newspaper.  _Country Doctor shot while partaking in daring train robbery: accomplice gets away._   There are logistics to this scenario that the insatiable outlaw couldn’t possibly have accounted before and the weight of them hangs heavy around Leonard’s head.  “How am I supposed to rob a train without a gun?”

He can’t see Kirk’s mouth anymore, the handkerchief covering everything below his eyes, but he knows the kid is smiling at him, and god does he hate that smile.  It shouldn’t surprise him when Jim pulls a colt out from behind his back and hands it over to him.  The weight of the gun is heavier than he imagined and cumbersome.  Part of his brain wants to lecture Kirk again on the dos and don’ts of kidnapping, because really, it’s a wonder the kid has made it this far in life.  His mother must be completely grey and a constant nervous wreck. 

“Just don’t shoot me,” is the only tutorial he’s given before Kirk is throwing open the door to what looks like a storage car.  Leonard thinks back to the few lessons his father gave him as a small boy under the guise of _you never know when it will save your life_ and thinks he remembers enough to make the thing actually fire.  “I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone.”  He feels like mentioning that he probably couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if he tried but doesn’t think the confession would rattle Kirk at all.

The thought does flicker in his head briefly, shooting Kirk.  The world would probably be a better place but McCoy would be a worse person.  For the reasons he probably should, there’s only one why he can’t.  He’s a doctor, even if it kills him.  And now it’s looking like it will.

“Stay behind me and you’ll be fine.” Jim assures like he’s reassuring the damsel in distress even though he suspects McCoy is probably anything but.

The whole experience is new and McCoy can feel the electricity of something close to excitement crackling in the air.  There’s a nervous energy buzzing in his ears and the world seems to be in sharper focus.  He has a startling thought that this feeling could be both addictive and the reason why people like Jim Kirk do this sort of thing.  Kirk is striding boldly through the car but the doctor zeros in on the crates stacked and stored within the car.  “These are the supplies I need.”  He points to one of the crates off to the side.

“That’s great, Bones, keep that in mind for when we come back.”

“Back?  This is what we came for.”

“True, but Uhura and Sulu are counting on us to be the distraction so they can jump on the train and force it to stop before the train gets to the portion of the track Scotty has probably blown up.”

There are so many things wrong with that sentence, McCoy doesn’t even know where to start.  He no longer hopes he’s going to wake up with the mother of all hangovers in his office but in an asylum for the insane.  “Why not?” he mutters to himself, following behind like a lost puppy.  Of course he would wake up today to be the distraction for a train robbery, a train that is speeding down a track that might likely be blown to hell; this is definitely a thing people do before breakfast.

Kirk kicks open the door to the passenger car with over-exuberance, draws his gun, and lets off one round into the ceiling.  As one, everyone’s heads snap to the back of the car with dramatic gasps.  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery.  We’re not here for your personal effects but the shipping crates.  If everyone stays seated and nobody tries to be a hero, this will all be over shortly without incident.  We’re sorry for any inconvenience.”

McCoy has to admire the kid’s showmanship.  He’s been on the wrong end of Jim’s gun and he still kind of wants to route for the kid.  He can understand Kirk’s captive audience sitting in their seats in riveted fascination and not giving into blind panic and chaos.  There are a few startled gasps and conspiratorial whispers but everyone seems content to remain frozen in their seats; no one willing to play the hero, as Kirk continues his sermon to the front of the car.

He’s relieved they aren’t being challenged, Kirk’s severely outnumbered and he can’t fathom wading into a fight with these innocent people, his medical oath and morality only the first two stumbling blocks to harming their captives, and when did he go from prisoner to captor?

He can feel the abrupt change in speed beneath his feet and it sends a tidal wave of nausea through him.  The adrenaline from their jump earlier is wearing off, making him all too aware of where he is.  It’s a good thing everyone is hanging on Kirk’s every word, passively waiting for things to be over because the thought of being trapped in this narrow metal tube is causing his panic to spike to the point where he wants to lock himself in the bathroom and throw up.  This is worse that riding in a stagecoach; he fears for the future and what new inventions for breakneck speed will ‘revolutionize’ their lives and reduce him to a puddle on the floor.

The ‘I told you so’ look forms a grin on the kid’s face that reads plainly in his eyes as the breaks squeal, and the train begins its stop.  “See, it will all be over soon.”

McCoy’s not sure if it’s karma against him or Kirk or just poor timing on the kid’s part but an explosion of gunfire punctuates his last word.  He instinctively throws himself against the wall of the train as the bullets smash the glass window in the doors that separate the cars.  The passengers scream and duck in their seats and Leonard flinches at the sound, his body suddenly frozen.

“Change of plans,” yells Kirk, alternating between shielding himself behind the wall and shooting back against the men in the other car.  “If you’ll all kindly move back to the next car.  Bones, help them across.”

Bullets are an excellent motivator.  The passengers scramble towards the doctor as he opens the doors.  He helps them make the jump between the two cars, tossing the smaller children into the waiting arms of their parents until everyone has managed to get across.  He turns back to the front of the passenger car.  “Now what?” he yells to be heard over the noise.  He should leave Kirk to his fate, except that his fate is now inexplicability tied to the outlaws.  Truth being stranger than fiction, if these are the ‘good guys’ shooting at them now, they’d never believe Leonard’s insane tale of how he came to be part of the train robbery.

Kirk’s tucked behind the wall reloading his guns before popping back up to take more shots at the next car.  His aim’s far superior to McCoy’s because the guards seem to be pinned down unable to take the passenger car they’re holding up in.  “Now we take the guards out,” he yells over his shoulder.

It sounds so simple out of Kirk’s lips, like they have a snowball’s chance in hell of being successful against the numerous things that could go wrong.  Knowing Kirk, the kid probably hasn’t ever been in a situation where the horseshoe conveniently lodged up his ass hasn’t been able to see him triumphant.  Part of Leonard doesn’t want to be there to see the day that doesn’t hold true.

Knowing it won’t do any good, he pulls out the sidearm Jim had handed him earlier and fires in the general direction of the guards.  He doesn’t have to worry about hitting anyone but the noise might make them take cover for a moment that Kirk can exploit. 

Jim kicks open the door and makes the jump to the next car, guns still ablaze.  “You coming, Bones?”

McCoy rolls his eyes. “Yes, let’s run towards the bullets!”  Reluctantly he follows against his own better judgement.  The seriousness of the situation is ramping up as he catches his first glimpse of just how many men they’re up against.  Overkill was probably beaten by at least ten men.  Even considering what Kirk has explained about Nero and what he’s doing, the army he’s hired to escort these supplies is a ridiculous show of excess and indulgence.  He’s sure someone can calculate the small odds of their success but he can count bullets and Kirk is going to run out long before they run out of bodies.

The answer to their growing problem comes in the form of Sulu and Uhura bursting through the door on the other side of the car, spreading their own fair share of bullets around.  Leonard gives a sigh of relief while Jim seems to grow even bolder in his shots.  The fight ends surprising quickly after that, the handful of guards still alive surrender in the face of their assured demise.  Uhura and Sulu waste no time tying up the guards and frog marching them off the train while Kirk goes back to the cargo car to off load the passenger.

McCoy slumps down in one of the seats, his mind disturbingly blank as he stares at the dead bodies littered around the car.  He doesn’t feel bad about the loss of life here.  These men aren’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination; they hadn’t hesitated to shoot at the civilians to get to them.  When did this become his life?  Last month he was a simple country doctor and now he’s waist deep in a conspiratorial plot with a gang of outlaws that seem to have a better understanding of wrong and right than the lawmen charged with protecting the people in these parts.

Sulu clomps back into the car and approaches the doctor hesitantly.  He gently places his hand on the man’s shoulder to get his attention.  “You coming, Doc?” he asks quietly.  What happened here is a lot to take in on its own, never mind everything they’ve put the doctor through already.

He shakes his head to clear it, glancing at Sulu for the first time.  “Yeah.”  He nods numbly, his body smart enough to go through the motions even if his mind hasn’t gotten a solid grasp on things yet.  He follows Sulu out into a weird controlled chaos.  Uhura is the imposable force he remembers from his office, standing guard over the tied guards, her guns glistening in the sunlight.  Spock and Scotty have made their way on to the scene at some point and are helping Kirk carry the crates from the train to the wagon by the track.  They all move with a practiced ease that really suggests they do this all the time.

“Bones, why don’t you check on the passengers and make sure they’re alright,” suggest Kirk, depositing the crate he’s carrying before heading back to get another.

That he can do.  McCoy walks towards the group of huddled passengers who tense at his presence.  He can’t blame them for their skepticism; technically he is with the group that’s robbing the train, even if it’s against his will.  Nobody is bleeding and he’s thankful for that small mercy; they’re the only truly innocent people here.  It’s mostly panic and fear afflicting the group and the only cure is time and distance from the gun toting gang. It’s the small girl crying hysterically pulls his attention and his conscious.

He kneels down and picks up the raggedy doll she’s dropped.  “Hey now, what’s all the tears about?”  Gently he rubs away the tear rolling down her check with his thumb as he hands back her doll.  Her trembling hands snatch the doll back and she hugs it to her chest tightly.  She doesn’t answer, just stares at him with big brown eyes and wobbling lips.  She looks so much like his own little girl, he wants to cry.  Her mother pulls her closer to her side like she did the doll, eyes also fixated on McCoy.

“It’s going to be alright Jo...”the name dies on his tongue.  This is not his little girl and he has no right making a promise he knows he can’t, couldn’t keep.  He clears his throat to try again.  “This will all be over soon and it will seem like a bad dream.”

As if to prove him wrong or maybe just to prove the universe has it personally out for him, one of the passengers pushes his trench coat to the side to reveal a hidden sidearm.  The world slows to a crawl as the man pulls it and points it at an unsuspecting Kirk.  “Nobody steals from Nero!” 

He’s the closest one to do anything; yelling won’t get Jim out of the way in time.  He’s moving before he can even think better about it, slamming into the man and sending them to the ground in a messy heap. 

The other passengers let out cries of surprise and scatter away from the action as McCoy and the man fight for the gun firmly in his grasp.  They roll across the ground, trading blows and McCoy receives a stunning head butt as the man rips the doctor’s mask off.  There’s a sharp bang and the man seems to stop struggling allowing McCoy to roll onto his back and gasp for air.  The burning pain in his arm intensifies as time speeds up to its normal pace.  The man is standing over him, gun pointed directly at his chest.

It had all been going so well, Kirk thinks when the shot rings out.  Everyone freezes at the sound, sending worrisome glances to the other members of the gang as they do a mental headcount.  Of all the people he expected to end up in a brawl, the doctor would be the last.  He even gave the safest job possible of tending to the passengers, just to keep McCoy out of the way.  He doesn’t hesitate, not for one second, when he sees the gunman standing over McCoy, finger starting to pull tightly against the trigger.  He’s relieved that no one else seems to hesitate either as a cluster of bullets from varying directions takes the man down with a vengeance.

“What the hell was that?” demands Kirk as he rushes to Leonard’s side.

“Looks like Nero’s resorted to undercover agents now,” offers Sulu as he kicks over the body of the gunman to examine him.  It’s not a stretch, they’ve seen this move before and the man was carrying the same issued guns as the guards.

McCoy is sucking in breath through clenched teeth and all he can focus on is the pain.  His head lolls to the side and he gets his first good look at the bloody hole in the fleshier part of his upper arm.  His hand latches on tight to try and stop the bleeding but it does nothing to stem the pain.  It isn’t life threatening in and of itself but the bullet is still in there and needs to come out before the day is done.  Between the leg and now the shoulder, he’s not looking forward to it.

“Are you okay?” asks Kirk as his hands ghost over the doctor looking for other injuries.

“Mmmm,” he growls as Kirk pulls him to a sitting position.  “I’ve been shot,” he snaps like it’s personally Jim’s fault and it kind of is; he did drag Leonard along on this stupid stunt.

“An astute observation,” says Spock, giving the doctor another hand to help pull him to his feet, despite the death glare he’s getting.

“There’s gratitude for you,” snarls McCoy though his clenched teeth.

Kirk tips his head in the direction of the cargo car. “Hurry and get those supplies loaded.  We need to get out of here now.”  Spock silently goes back to the task at hand as Jim slowly helps McCoy make his way to the wagon.  “How bad is it?”  The guilt’s back in Jim’s voice and his expressive blue eyes look like he’s going to break if the doctor tells him it’s bad.

Leonard gets himself seated on the back edge of the wagon with the kid’s help.  He waves off Jim’s concern.  “It’s fine,” he tells him even though they both know it’s not.

“We’ll get you back to camp and get you patched up,” Jim assures, concern radiating though the hand that hasn’t found its way off the doctor’s shoulder. 

Leonard lies back; he’s suddenly exhausted from everything the day has brought.  “A gun slinger practicing medicine without a licence, I can hardly wait.”

Kirk pats him on the knee.  “Yeah, you’re going to be fine.”  He heads back towards the train and even though McCoy can’t see him from his current angle, he knows the annoying smile is back on Jim’s face.


	8. Chapter 7

The wagon jerks to a rough halt, jarring McCoy awake.  He must have fallen asleep the second he laid down because he doesn’t remember the trip at all and now they’re back at camp.  He has mixed feelings about that but at least he missed the nausea inducing rocking of a bumpy wagon ride.  Gingerly he sits up, trying not to bump his collection of injuries and awakening the sharp pain they like to inflict.

Kirk is suddenly at the back of the wagon with Scotty.  “Here, let’s get you fixed up.”  They help him off the wagon and keep steadying hands on him as the trio makes their way to the medical tent.  Scotty grabs a chair for McCoy setting it next to the supply cabinet.

“What happened?” asks Chekov, standing in alarm at the activity spilling into the tent.

“The doctor decided to gettem-self a nice wee little hole in his arm,” explains Scotty.  There’s a tinged of amusement in his voice that’s failing to cover his concern.

“I’m fine,” assures McCoy at the worried expression on Chekov’s face.  If he keeps telling himself that, he might believe it.  At the very least, it’ll keep the kid from panicking.

Kirk rips the doctor’s sleeve off giving him more room to work as Scotty grabs anything he thinks might be useful from the cabinet and dumps it in the table.  Jim grabs a pair of tweezers off the table and moves his hand towards McCoy’s arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” demands the doctor, his scowl deepening.

“Getting the bullet out,” he answers plainly like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and really McCoy should know that.

“The hell you are,” snaps Leonard as he snatches the tweezers out of his hands.  “I can do it myself.  Who’s the doctor here?”

“It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

“I’ll bet.  I need a bottle of whisky before I can start.”

“Scotty,” starts Kirk but the Scotsman is already on his feet and heading out the door with an, “Aye, on it.”

Leonard looks towards Chekov whose still staring slack jawed. “Any change with Pike?”  It’s both a distraction for the kid and vital information.  He really hates to think he went through all this only to come back to a corpse.

“Negative.”  Chekov looks regretful, like the Captain should have made a full recovery on his watch and he’s just come up short, but it’s the best news McCoy could have hoped for.  No change means things haven’t gotten worse and there’s a chance he can still dig the man out of this hole now that they have fresh supplies.

Scotty bursts back in the tent, whisky bottle and a glass in his hands.  McCoy takes both, setting the glass on the table and examines the bottle.  It’s a decent bottle of actual bourbon, not the homemade stuff that Scotty has been plying them all with.  “You’ve been holding out on me,” he says, pouring a glass and dropping the tweezers into it.  Scotty just looks sheepish and Kirk does a double take as McCoy takes a long swig right from the bottle.  “For the pain,” he explains.

It’s not nearly enough.  The pain is fierce and sharp and his hand begins to shake as he continues to blindly poke around in the wound looking for the bullet.  It would be easier to have Kirk do it but he doesn’t want to be that indebted to anyone, least of all Kirk, his kidnapper and captor.  Besides, who knows what trouble the kid would get into if he did start poking around in Leonard’s arm.  He finally finds it and not a moment too soon; the room is starting to swim and his jaw is aching from gnashing his teeth together.  He pulls it out, letting the bullet and the tweezers drop to the ground as both his arms hang uselessly at his sides.

Kirk wordlessly hands him the bottle of bourbon, making sure McCoy has a firm grip on it before he removes his hand.  He doesn’t ask for permission when he pours the glass of alcohol over the wound making McCoy flinch and howl in pain.  When the doctor gets his breathing back under control, he wraps the arm up in bandages as McCoy finishes off the bottle.

The doctor slumps back in the chair, blissfully relaxed with the aid of his liquid friend, and barely notices as Kirk moves to properly bandage his leg.  The kid’s face says everything but he knows the wound looks worse than it is.  If it was anything serious he wouldn’t have been walking around during their daring heist.  As long as he can keep the wounds clean, he’ll be fine.

“Thanks, Bones,” he whispers.

“For what?” slurs McCoy.  He’s kind of fuzzy right now but doesn’t remember doing anything yet that he needs to be thanked for; he hasn’t got Pike back on his metaphorical feet yet.

“You saved my life.” 

There’s a little bit of awe in his eyes and a gratitude that makes McCoy’s gut clench.  It’s like the kid’s never had a stranger do anything nice for him before.  It’s not even like he planned it, he just kind of reacted; would have done it for any of them despite everything that’s happened.  Maybe if he did it to save Kirk specifically for the sake of saving Kirk he’d be worthy of the gratitude but he knows it was only him because he was the closest.  “You saved mine first.”  He tries really hard not to look too critically at that statement because he knows he might be talking about more than saving him on top of the train.  He hasn’t felt this alive since the last time he held his little girl.

* * *

 

Turns out the heist and getting shot were worth it, or at least the heist part.  The drugs are good and after a few touch and go days, Pike turns the corner for the best.  It’s like a weight has been lifted off of McCoy’s shoulders and he can see the lightness spread to the rest of the camp.

He has to say he likes Pike from the few brief conversations they’ve had.  The man’s not bitter about the circumstance, rather he’s grateful to be alive.  Out of everyone here, he seems to have the most level head, probably based on experience and a life richly lived.  He could probably spend the whole day listening to Pike’s tales of adventure under different circumstances.  McCoy can see now how Kirk has lived as long as he has, Pike’s been there to pull his ass out of the fire, and wonders what will happen now, that the man’s no longer fit for action.

He wanders into the cookhouse in search of Kirk.  He’s there, engaged in a poker game with Uhura and Scotty.  It seems more like a battle of wills than a friendly card game, each approaching the hand like a tactical situation in which there can be no prisoners taken.

Jim smiles brightly.  “Care to join us, McCoy?  We could always use fresh blood to liven up the game.”

“Pike wants to see you,” he says solemnly.  Kirk couldn’t bring himself more than a few steps inside the medical tent when Pike was sick and ever since the Captain has been conscious, the kid hasn’t even made it that far.  The table goes quiet.  Clearly the doctor isn’t the only one that’s noticed Kirk’s aversion.

“Right.”  Kirk drops his cards with finality and stands.  He doesn’t move for a long time; he’s backed into a corner he can’t get out of and there’s no miracle to stop what’s about to happen.  He’s made a practice of ignoring the things he doesn’t want to face; it makes it easier to pretend they didn’t happen or better yet, won’t.  He puts on his game face, the too bright smile and smooth unneeded swagger and heads for the door.  “Don’t look at my cards while I’m gone,” he tosses out carefree.

He swallows hard when he gets to Pike’s tent unable to make his body take the necessary steps inside. 

“Don’t linger in the door,” calls Pike.  “It’s rude.”

Jim skulks in like a naughty child being called before the headmaster.  “Sorry sir.”  He’s rigid and uncomfortable and knows he has no right to be, he isn’t the one that got shot, lost a foot.

“Sit down,” commands Pike, pointing to the empty chair and Jim silently obeys.  He offers nothing, can’t even bring himself to look his mentor in the eye.  He did this; he failed to keep him safe.  He absolutely deserves to be called on the carpet for his crime.

“This isn’t your fault,” says Pike, as though he can read Jim’s mind.

“I should have seen the ambush coming,” he argues.  He had been complacent, let his guard down and they were almost killed for it.

“They’re called ambushes for a reason, son.  We all know the risks to this life, things happen,” Pike says in earnest.

Jim hangs his head.  “It shouldn’t have been you.”

“What, it should have been you?  Spock?  I see greatness in you, Jim; you have a lot left to give.  Me, I was coming to the end of this life anyways.  It’s time to do something more respectable, quiet and let you kids finish this.”

Jim snorts.  They’re pretty words but too far from reality.  The only thing he’s had is vengeance and the direction Pike gave him.  Vengeance landed him in jail, he’s not sure how far he’s going to get without Pike steering him.  Well- he does know, because the highlights of brash decisions he made without Pike’s supervision have put him at the end of the army’s noose, even more recently he’s kidnapped an innocent man in order to coerce his services for their own personal gain.  He has the very real fear that Nero will get away with everything if Pike isn’t in charge.

Pike continues, ignoring Jim’s silent protests.  “I’m going to stay with my sister and her husband on their farm.  You don’t need another mouth around here to feed that can’t contribute-”  He raises his voice to drown out Jim’s protests to the contrary.  “-and I want to spend some time with my nieces and nephews while they’re young.  Maybe keep them on the straight and narrow before they grow up to be like you.”

Despite the joke, Jim feels like his world is being ripped out from under him.

“I’ve talked to Spock already, he’s going to defer to your lead as is everyone else.  This is your gang now, Jim. Everything you do from this point forward impacts more than you.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea Captain?  You’re our leader,” he protests.  He has no doubt that he can see himself through but others?  He’s never been a big picture kind of guy, the moment always proving to be too tempting.

“Not Captain, not anymore.   For all its good, I use my former position as Army Captain of the 12th regiment to promote you to Captain.  Congratulations Jim, you’re the captain now.  As soon as the doctor okays it, Spock’s going to take me to the ranch.”

Jim nods numbly and gets to his feet.  He can feel the tears he’s holding back start to burn his eyes.  He lost a father once, he isn’t prepared to do it again.

Pike gives him a pointed look. “It’s going to be alright son.”

“We, _I,_ won’t disappoint you,” he assures before taking his chance to flee.

“And in the future, don’t kidnap doctors and force them to commit crimes with you.  It draws attention,” Pike calls out to his retreating back, eyes locked towards heaven in a silent prayer that the world can survive Captain James T Kirk.

* * *

 

McCoy makes Pike wait five more days, just to be sure, and only agrees to let him go to his sister’s if he agrees to seek out a doctor if he even thinks something might not be right.  He also obtains the man’s promise to see about getting fitted with a wooden foot in a few months time.  McCoy would like to be a part of all of it but doesn’t know what his future holds now that his job of saving Pike’s life is complete.

He watches Spock and Uhura load Pike onto the wagon and head out into the desert.  The two of them being involved is just one of the many mysteries he can’t unravel about the gang.  They shouldn’t work and yet they do, well mostly he thinks Spock doesn’t work and can’t fathom how Uhura deals with it.

They disappear over the horizon, and a sinking feeling stabbing his gut that he hasn’t felt since Kirk dragged him out in the middle of the night under the guise of death to rob the train.  He’s lost again, unsure what’s going to happen and too familiar with people that are likely to kill him now that his usefulness has come to an end.  It doesn’t matter what they’ve been through, the cold hard fact is they’re outlaws and he’s seen their faces; there can’t be any going home after this, not if they want to survive.

“There you are.”  Kirk comes to stand next to him.  “I’ve been looking for you.”

McCoy doesn’t say anything.  It’s not a large camp and there isn’t really anywhere else he could go, so clearly he hasn’t put Kirk out that much.  He imagines Kirk will play this thing like it’s not going to happen until the very end and Leonard would rather look it in the eye instead of playing make believe.  His mother’s adage about killing people with kindness is ringing true in his ear.

Jim ignores the silence, the doctor is obviously in one of his moods today but he’ll win him over.  He hasn’t met anyone he couldn’t win over, hell he even managed to charm Spock.  “Sulu has the horses ready to go.”

The doctor lets out a poignant huff.

“Figured you probably want to head home, now that there’s nothing to do around here.”

“You’re going to let me leave?”  McCoy’s looking at him now, scrutinizing every inch.  There’s a trap here, he just has to find it.  If he’s learned anything about the reckless outlaw, it’s that he’s smart in his own annoying way, at least when his people are concerned and Leonard poses a big risk to those people.

He tries not to be hurt by the doctor still assuming the worst out of them, even tries to ignore the way Leonard seems to light up when he nods yes.  He’s grown attached to the guy and has been secretly hoping he’d want to stay.  He enjoys McCoy’s company and his cranky demeanour.  And it’s always better to have a doctor that’s willing to help rather than one gang pressed into service, which means letting the man leave and not forcing him to stay.  “We’re burning daylight.”

McCoy keeps his optimism closely guarded as he follows Kirk to the waiting horses.  There are a lot of miles between here and Federation City, plenty of time for Kirk to change his mind and reveal his true colors.  Being let go seems too easy and nothing in McCoy’s life has ever been easy.

It’s a half a day’s ride to reach the edge of town and McCoy never thought he’d be so grateful to see the shit hole of a town in his life.  He’s almost giddy with relief that the insanity that has been his life the last little while is going to give way to normalcy.  They ride through town, the people going about their lives barely noticing them, and certainly not acting like their doctor was abducted weeks ago.  Relief sweeps through him as they stop in front of his office; at the start of all of this, he never thought he’d see it again.  His feet are on solid ground and he’s alive.

Kirk slides off his horse and ties it to the hitching rail along the boardwalk.  He looks questioningly at the curious look McCoy is shooting him.

“What are you doing?”

Jim shrugs his shoulders.  “I figured we could go to the saloon and get a drink; celebrate!”  He claps his hand on McCoy’s shoulder before leading the charge to the saloon.  “I’m buying.”

There is no opposing the sheer force that is Jim Kirk and McCoy’s too tired of trying.  There’s nothing left to do but just go with the tide and try and keep his head above water.  And if he’s honest with himself he feels a little melancholy at parting ways. “You bet your ass you are.”

Jim already has two mugs in hand by the time Leonard crosses the threshold.  He may have changed over the last few weeks but this place has stayed blessedly the same; even his usual table is waiting for them in the back.

“It’s good to see ya, Doc,” calls the bartender as he sees McCoy walk in.  “We thought you turned tail and ran.  This life ain’t for everyone, figured you were too much of a tenderfoot to handle it.”

Kirk hands McCoy one of the mugs to put his hand on the handle of his gun.  This is a test to see if the doctor has really earned his freedom, and he’s pretty sure he’s read the man right.  He may like the doctor but his loyalty runs deep with the people waiting for him at camp and he won’t hesitate to spill the blood of a man he likes if it protects the gang.

McCoy brushes off the statement with a fake smile.  “Naw, I had a family emergency to tend to.  Left a notice in my office that I’d be gone.”

“Must have gotten lost,” offers the bartender.

“Must have,” agrees Leonard, heading towards his usual table.  He feels like he’s pulled something off even though it was him that was wronged in the first place and he wonders if he’s cut out for this double life.

“Nice work, McCoy,” congratulates Jim as he pulls up a chair.

“Yeah, well, couldn’t have you shooting up the bar... or me for that matter.”  He can see it was a test but unlike Kirk’s perspective, McCoy can’t see a pass or fail for any outcome, they’re all fails to varying degrees.  Lying to these people that didn’t even notice he was in trouble ignites both disappointment and a milder version of the trill he had during the robbery.  Despite being firmly in the middle of his normal life, he’s a ghost of what was, tangled in the shackles of wanting it back but liking what he saw on the other side.  Morally, it was all wrong but in the end a man got his life back.  He catches Jim’s gaze and they both smile, laughing at the ridiculousness that is their lives.  They drink in companionable silence and it’s... nice.

He almost chokes when he feels a set of hands run across his shoulders, down his back and over his thighs.  “I’ve missed you, Doctor,” Gaila whispers in her sultry voice.  “It’s been lonesome without you.”

McCoy grabs a hold of her hands, pulling them off of him as he sits her down in the chair next to him.  He does not address the smirk that’s spreading across Jim’s face and can only imagine what Kirk is envisioning.

Gaila just pouts at his refute turning her hungry eyes to the other man at the table. “Who’s your friend?”  She eyes him like a tiger finding new and exotic prey to stalk.

Leonard gapes for a moment, running through all the ways that introducing these two forces in his life is going to end badly, when Jim extends his hand and introduces himself.  “Jim Kirk.  Any friend of McCoy’s is a friend of mine.”  McCoy wants to put his finger down his throat and puke but that would be a waste of good alcohol.  He can practically see the hormones flying across the table and is surprised that they aren’t on the table rutting against each other already.

“We could be more than friends,” she offers.

“I’d like that.”  Kirk stands and takes her hand as she leads him away from the table.  McCoy just rolls his eyes as they head for the stairs and the multitude of rooms upstairs.  “Don’t wait up, Bones.”

McCoy finished off his glass and signals the bartender for another.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 


	9. Chapter 8

McCoy thought he’d be glad to finally be ride of Jim and company but the victory feels hollow somehow.  He wakes up in his own bed and feels disappointed that this is the start to his day.  There’s no breakfast awaiting him at the table and no tantalizing conversation to partake in.  He’s been left to his own devices and misery, and it’s not as comforting as it had once been.  He scrounges through his cupboards for food and comes up with nothing usable.  Pointedly ignoring the ache in his soul, he resigns himself to heading to the saloon for breakfast.  He eats alone and heads back to the office to reacquaint himself with his life. 

His days have fallen back into their depressive pattern.  There’s no excitement in the mundane and he finds himself remembering the story his mother told him about being careful what you wish for.  It’s lonely in a way that it never was before and duller than he remembers it being.  Under no circumstances does he long for the excitement of hanging around Kirk and company; he won’t let himself go there.  This is where he belongs, what he deserves, but just maybe...

Madness lies that way, he knows, and only a suicidal fool would want any part of that life.  He’ll get back on track; it’s just the volatile emotional state of being kidnapped by outlaws that’s twisting his perspective.  He’s not an outlaw; he doesn’t even like horses, or guns.

It’s another dull Tuesday when he hears the door to his office open.  “I’ll be right out,” he calls from the back, carefully taking his frying pan off the stove.  He wanders into his office and stops dead in his tracks.  Scotty is leaning causally against his exam table like he doesn’t have a care in the world.  He eyes him critically looking for any wounds or something that would require a medical practitioner’s care but finds nothing.  “What are you doing here?” he demands, more harshly than he really means.  He’s glad to see the man but weary about his presence.

“We thought you might wanna grab a drink, Doctor.”  He looks confused as to why he has to explain his presence when it should be fairly obvious.

“We?” asks McCoy looking around to see who else has traipsed back in his life. The office is empty except for the two of them.  Instinctively he turns around towards the accommodation portion of the building not wanting to fall victim to Kirk’s persuasion a second time.  He’s slightly disappointed that no one is there.

“Oh aye,” insists Scotty.  “The Captain and I were desperate to quench our thirst at the watering hole.”

“The Captain?”  He lets the question hang in the air knowing Scotty will pick up the strands.

“Captain Kirk, he’s in the saloon now chattin up a sweet young lass.”

“Of course he is,” huffs McCoy not surprised in the least.  He’s a little pissed off but unsurprised that Kirk thinks he can walk boldly back into Leonard’s life like their acquaintance wasn’t forced in the first place, like he chose to know Jim Kirk at all.  There’s also a disturbing inkling that the impetuous outlaw maybe the remedy to getting Leonard out of his all consuming darkness.  “Well let’s go save him from himself,” says Leonard as he heads out the door with Scotty behind him.

“Bones!” cheers Jim as they walk into the saloon.  He’s sitting at McCoy’s usual table with Gaila practically in his lap and row of shots spread out across the table.  “Glad you could join us.”

Kirk’s back in his town, in his bar, sitting at _his_ table.  The kid’s like a god damn fungus that’s growing on every inch of his life.  He wants to throttle the kid while being equally as glad that he’s here.  He’s missed this, though he’d rather die than let Kirk know that; his ego doesn’t need that kind of a boost.  Jim’s sly like a fox, so he knows there’s more to the Captain’s sudden need for a drink and imparting company on the doctor that has him darkening McCoy’s door.  This is a house call, pure and simple; a test to see if the doctor is holding up his end of the unspoken bargain, silence in exchange for his life.  At least if they’re here, they’re not out there plaguing anyone else’s lives.  He begrudgingly pulls out a chair.  “Yeah, well it’s the only place to get a decent drink in this town.”

Jim just smiles and calls for another round of drinks.  It’s a good night and a break from the monotony of his routine that he desperately needs.

They’re gone by morning, leaving McCoy to his life almost as though they were never there to begin with.  He’s pretty convinced he didn’t make the whole thing up.  That’s the story he sticks with the rest of the week because the alternative is too disturbing to contemplate.

He’s relieved in more ways than one when Tuesday rolls around again and Scotty comes to collect him from his office.  This time they’ve talked Chekov into joining them.  The kid can drink as good as the rest of them but blushes something fierce when Gaila starts paying extra attention to him.  McCoy’s never laughed harder in his life.

It becomes a weekly thing; the line up changes, Scotty the only constant every week.  It’s nice to see them all in a neutral setting and he finds himself looking forward to their Tuesday night gatherings.  He justifies it to himself by labeling it a public service to distract the gang one night a week.  And if his sudden foray into rejoining the world leaves him with fewer nightmares and haunting ghosts, then that’s just a pleasant side effect.  They drink and chat but never discuss what nefarious acts the gang is up to.  It’s safer for all of them if he doesn’t know the details.  And he doesn’t want to, doesn’t need the reminder of who they all really are.  The stress of waiting around to find out what happened, worrying about their safety and the innocent people involved, would be too much.

* * *

 

Leonard mentally chastises himself for taking solace in the comfortable rhythm that has become his life.  It’s all too perfect and he remembers that feeling all too well, or rather what comes directly after that feeling sets in.  He hasn’t been this complacent since he was a father and husband, and the best part of his day was coming home from work to have his little girl run down the path from the house to greet him with a bone crushing hug and a kiss from his wife at the door.  That had been violently snatched away leaving him hollow and dead in every way possible except the one that mattered.  He knew happiness was a precursor to horror and still he finds himself surprised when reality shatters his carefully rebuilt existence.

“Doctor!  We need a doctor!”

It’s the pained cry for help that starts his day spiraling into darkness.  The door slams against the wall, letting a flurry of activity spill into the office.  A man is shouting as a woman follows behind sobbing hysterically but all he can focus on is the limp child in the man’s arms.  His world narrows down to an all too young face and the bright smears of blood covering it.

“Put him on the examination table,” orders McCoy already moving towards the patient.  He has to pry the woman’s hand from the little boy’s in order to work and that only makes her sob louder.  “What happened?”

“We were on the stagecoach coming from Deneva when were attacked by a gang of outlaws.  There were four of them... we couldn’t see their faces, they said they wanted the shipment.  We gave them everything they asked for and then the leader just... he just shot my son.  He shot him for no reason!” shouts the father, standing so close to McCoy the doctor can almost hear the man’s heart pounding.

Leonard rips open the small boy’s shirt and curses as blood bubbles and pours out of the hole in the small chest.  The boy’s breaths are shallow and wet sounding, decreasing in frequency as the minutes tick by on the clock.  The wound is too severe but he doesn’t stop trying, silently praying to a god he no longer believes in for a miracle he’s never been granted before; anything so he doesn’t have to tell that poor child’s mother she’s going to have to bury her little boy.

His heart skips a beat as he feels the small chest beneath his hands rise for the last time, going painfully still before it’s time.  McCoy swallows hard before putting his ear to the child’s chest.  There’s no steady beat to promise life just a deathly silence that swallows the whole room.  Leonard breaks that silence, smashes into unrecognizable shards with a shake of his head; that’s all it takes to communicate to the boy’s parents that all their hope is gone, just like their son.

The mother lets out a soul piercing shriek before collapsing on the floor inconsolable.   He’s intimately familiar with the sound; it’s the same one that haunts his dreams at night.  His hand grips tightly around the scalpel in his hand until blood drips freely on the ground releasing miniscule amounts of the rising anger radiating off of him.  His vision narrows, the outer edges going black until all he can see is the child in the arms of his mother in crystal clarity.

“Why did this happen?  We gave them the crates,” mumbles the father, standing at the doctor’s side in complete disbelief.

McCoy can’t ignore the gnawing fear in his gut, he has to ask the question that’s burning up his mind.  “What did these raiders look like?”

The father shakes his head.  “They had their faces covered.”

“Did the leader have bright blue eyes?”

“I didn’t see his eyes but... but one of them looked as though he had pointed ears.”

The ground feels like it’s disappearing under Leonard’s feet and he can’t help but think he’s had a hand in this boy’s death.  Part of him wants to consider the odds that maybe he’s wrong about this, that maybe it’s just coincidence but the facts are hard to ignore.  The odds aren’t good that he doesn’t know who these outlaws are... and he helped them.  There’s just as much blood on his hands as there’s.


	10. Chapter 9

McCoy sits in his darkening office alone with his thoughts and grief.  He can’t get the picture of that lifeless child out of his head or the anguish of his parents.  He knows that anguish intimately and wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. The first night he’d spent in the bottom of a bottle and has some vague recollection of Galia dragging him home and putting him in bed with a sad smile on her face.  Yesterday he spent in denial, coming up with any excuse he could to exonerate Kirk of the crime or worse, justify it.  The problem isn’t that he thinks any of them incapable of it, but he can’t reconcile what he knows about them with the image of cold blooded child murders. 

Today all he can feel is white hot rage.  It simmers just beneath the surface demanding answers but he’s afraid of what those answers might be.  Ignorance is bliss and he wants to be blissfully unaware again. 

If this is the price for the salvation of his soul, he regrets letting Kirk pull it out of eternal darkness, for showing him that he can feel the sunlight of life again.  He’s killed that child just as sure as if he pulled the trigger himself.  Sure refusing to help Pike or better yet, stabbing Kirk with that fork would have destroyed him, breaking his oath to do no harm, but better him than that innocent boy and who knows how many more in the future. 

His teeth gnash together when he hears his door open; it’s Scotty, right on schedule.  That pisses him off too, the casualness of how crimes can be so easily swept away.  He’s spent days wanting to gut himself for his acquiescence and the gang can continue on as though it never happened.

“What are ya doin’ sitting in the dark?” asks Mr Scott with his usual jovial enthusiasm.

“Get out of here Scotty,” he snaps, harsh and cold.  He keeps his back to the man, still and stone like his chair that’s still set in front of the exam table where he failed to save the boy.

 “Doctor?” Scotty asks hesitantly, not moving beyond the few steps he’s already taken into the office.  The air’s been sucked out of the room leaving an empty void that seems impossible to traverse.

“I said get out!”  God Leonard hates repeating himself.  It’s better for both of them if Scotty leaves, he doesn’t think he wants to be held responsible for what will happen if the Scotsman doesn’t leave.

Scotty can’t shake his unease at the doctor’s complete three-sixty.  During their time together they all became accustomed to McCoy’s surly side but his grumping always had an underlying sense of compassion or caring.  This is so cold and hollow he can’t help but fear for the man.  “Is there something wrong, Doctor McCoy?”

“Is something wrong?” he snarls, leaping up from his chair and getting in Scotty’s face with the look of the devil.  “You could say that Mr Scott.”  Scotty takes an instinctive step back but McCoy presses forward.  “Is Kirk here?”

The anger and hate dripping off the words sends a chill down the engineer’s spine.  It’s hard hatred in its purest form.  He swallows thickly before slowly nodding his head twice.

“Then tell him to get his ass in here, we need to have words!”

Scotty scrambles out of the office like it’s on fire.  McCoy sags slightly, some of the rigid tightness leaving his body.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he sees Kirk but part of him needs to hear for himself what possible justification there could be for such a crime.  Maybe he just needs to look the devil himself in the face and know it’s him because no one else could commit such atrocities after laughing and joking with the doctor in such a carefree manner.

It’s the shameless smile that Kirk’s wearing as he walks in that pushes McCoy over the edge.  His fist is flying before he knows what he’s doing.  The hard sound of flesh impacting flesh fills the room as Jim’s head snaps harshly to the side.  His hand explodes in pain but it hardly holds a candle to what he’s been feeling the past few days.

Kirk recovers quickly, his hand caressing his jaw as he stares at the doctor in confusion.  Scotty had said something was troubling McCoy but he hadn’t expected a welcome like this.  Sure in the grand scheme of things Jim knows he has it coming, certainly deserves it in the case of McCoy, but it’s a little late in coming, especially when things seemed to be going so well.

The doctor raises his fist again and this time Kirk is prepared.  He’s not going to take a beating if he doesn’t even know what it’s for.  He manages to grabs a hold of Leonard’s arm and twist it behind his back, effectively ending the doctor’s assault.  McCoy fights and bucks like a wild horse but Jim doesn’t loosen his grip; he’s pretty sure what will happen if the doctor gets a free hand, and he’ll feel pretty bad if he has to literally knock some sense into Leonard again.  Finally he can feel the man’s struggle lessen and he holds him for a few minutes more to make sure the fight is truly gone out of him.  “What’s gotten into you?” he asks, mouth right by the doctor’s ear.

“What’s gotten into me?” repeats McCoy with hate filled force.  “What’s gotten into you?  How could you do that Jim?  He was just a little boy damn it!”

Jim takes a step back.  The condemnation at which the accusation is thrown at him is like a solid punch.  His brow furrows in confusion, having no idea what McCoy could possibly be talking about but knows without a doubt by the sheer hatred being levelled at him it must be awful.  He pities the poor bastard that actual deserves the doctor’s wrath.  “Who was just a boy?”

Leonard is an imposable force standing in front of Jim.  He’s not going to be swayed by Jim’s pretty words and carefree smiles.  They’re guilty, the metaphorical hangman’s noose already firmly around their necks.  “Samuel Wright, the kid you shot after you took the crates off the stagecoach coming in from Deneva.”  The hot sting of unshed teas is back.

Jim stands there staring at McCoy.  He can’t seem to move, an unsettling numbness spreading out from his core.  He can’t understand why his normally quick brain can’t wrap itself around the crime being thrown at him.  Finally it clicks, just what McCoy not only thinks about the tragedy that’s consumed him but just what he thinks Jim is capable of and the latter hurts worse from the doctor than it could anyone else.  “Think carefully about what you’re accusing me of, Doctor,” he warns.

McCoy bristles.  How dare Kirk be mad.  “Four gunmen robbed the stagecoach taking the shipping crates and one of them had pointed ears!  So tell me Jim Kirk, who else is there to accuse?”  he punctuates his point by jabbing Kirk hard in the chest.

On the surface the evidence seems damning.  “We didn’t rob the stagecoach,” counters Jim with less fight than he usually musters.  “Spock’s not the only Vulcan and Vulcans aren’t the only ones who practice that.  Romulans do it to identify their warriors.  One of Nero’s men, Ayel, is a shunned warrior that he hired to join his cause.  I told you they paid people to steal the shipments to cover the crime.  He uses Ayel to help frame us,” explains Jim with as little emotion as possible.  He wonders just how far off the reservations he’s strayed that he can be lumped in with the same people like Nero and how disappointed his father would be if he could see him now.

McCoy deflates a little; the terrible feeling that he might have made a mistake not listening to the little voice in his heart that said these people weren’t capable of such things, replacing his rage.  “Why would he do that?”

“People are more likely to turn you in or shoot you if they think you’re going to kill them.  Destroying any good will we generate by not harming civilians just means more guns pointing at us and a greater chance that someone will take us out for him.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between them and McCoy wants to punch someone.  For the first time it’s himself rather than Jim.  He can hear Kirk’s words echoing in his head, _“Words hurt, Doctor.”_   He says the words, “I’m sorry,” but they seem rather inadequate in the wake of the crime.  He’s seen the worst in himself and people he loved; sometimes it’s hard not to assume it in everyone else all the time too.

Kirk nods but won’t meet Leonard’s eyes.  He’s not sure he can take the incrimination, the doubt that might still be lurking there.  Worse, his failure to bring Nero down has produced another casualty in his war.  It’s clear that knowing him has caused the doctor added stress and he feels bad about that too.  It’s all building up and he’s not sure actually killing Nero will balance the scales when it’s all said and done anymore.  “Well, I guess we have a lead on Ayel now.  We should probably get on that before the trail gets cold.”

Jim doesn’t move for a minute; he just stands there looking wounded.  “I’ll see you around, Doctor McCoy,” he says quietly before walking out the door.

The kicked puppy look is back on Jim’s face and McCoy isn’t sure how to make it disappear.  Worse, he’s pretty sure Kirk has just walked out of his life for good and he can’t find any joy in that prospect.  Unfortunately the only good things he’s built in his life since coming to Federation City are on top of a foundation Kirk has supplied him with.  By the time he can make his body move and walk over to the Saloon, Scotty’s gone and anyone else that had come with them.  He sits at his table and drinks but the alcohol tastes extra bitter tonight.  He mourns the loss of his Tuesday night companions and tries hard to nurse the small ember of hope that maybe they’ll still show up come next Tuesday, that he hasn’t destroyed yet another thing in his life with his carelessness and ineptitude.

Jim doesn’t come back on Tuesdays after that, but he doesn’t stop the others from coming because next Tuesday Scotty’s at his door and Chekov and Sulu are waiting in the Saloon for them.  They don’t speak of what happened the week before and they don’t mention Jim specifically in the weeks that follow.  Slowly things begin to fall back into their normal comfortable rhythm and that makes them feel all the more brittle in McCoy’s hands.

* * *

 

The office door bangs open and Leonard glances at the clock.  It’s a little early for Scotty to be there yet but the town has been extremely quiet lately and he isn’t expecting anyone else.  “You’re early today...” starts McCoy as he comes over to greet Scotty, but one look at the man and the doctor’s stomach plummets.  There’s a cut above his eye and he looks like his dog’s just died, making it clear what’s happened but he has to ask anyway.  “Who’s injured?”  Because that’s all it can be; he can’t fathom something more permanent.  His hands clench until the knuckles go white.

“It’s Captain Kirk.  We gotta in a shoot out with Nero’s boy Ayel,” confess the Scotsman, looking all the more remorseful.

“Is he alive?!” McCoy’s already got his medical bag in hand.

“He was when I left.”

“Take me to him,” demands the doctor.  Jim’s alive because there is no other option.  If he’s dead, he’ll bring him back just for the satisfaction of strangling him to death with his bare hands for being dumb enough to get shot in the first place.  They take off from town like the devil’s on their tail and for the first time, being on a horse doesn’t bother him.

They arrive in record time, the gang staring at McCoy like he’s going to personally offer them salvation.  Kirk’s writhing in the bed of the medical tent, pale and fighting for breath.  He’s covered in blood and McCoy has a horrible feeling there’s more covering Kirk than in him at this point.  The hastily applied bandages around his midsection are soaked and Spock’s allowing Jim to squeeze his hand in a death grip to try and manage the pain.

The second his bright blue eyes land on McCoy he forces a smile on his face.  “You came.”

McCoy pointedly ignores the blood stained teeth visible by the forced smile.  “You didn’t give me much of a choice,” he replies, irritated that Jim thought he wouldn’t and at the fact that he has to come for this.  “You could have just asked, you know.  You didn’t have to go and get yourself shot.”

Kirk makes an aborted chuckle sound.  “Have to keep you on your... your toes.  You’ll get rusty sitting around town with nothing to do,” he hisses out between his teeth as McCoy peels the bandage back to get a good look at what he’s dealing with.

He frowns at the wound, pulling out his flask and pressing it to Kirk’s lips.  “Doctor’s orders.”  Jim sucks it back gratefully, finishing it off as McCoy tips it back.  Spock hands him a set of tweezers and a scalpel without being asked and McCoy starts to dig around for the bullet.  Jim’s bucking hard as he tries to reach the bullet, making the procedure even more difficult and causing the wound to bleed more.  “Hold him steady!” he barks.

Spock and Sulu press down hard on Kirk’s shoulders stilling his squirming.  Leonard continues his search, trying hard to ignore the pained cries that Jim fails to stifle.  He’s not sure who’s more relieved when the kid finally passes out from the pain.  It’s both better for Jim and Leonard’s attempts to find the piece of led causing so much trouble.  His focus is razor sharp as he finally locates and extracts the damn bullet that caused this whole mess.  Something so small shouldn’t be this deadly.

He cleans and dresses the wound packing it tight to reduce bleeding, before he allows himself to relax.  He’s done all he can do, the rest is out of his hands; he’s put Jim back together on the wing of a prayer.  As long as infection doesn’t set in, he’s hopeful Kirk’s stubborn pigheaded determination will see him through.  The adrenaline is waning and his heart has finally stopped trying to rip out of his chest.  Now that the major trauma is over his mind starts to focus on the rest of the gang.  “Anyone else?” he asks.

“There were no other injuries,” reports Spock.  At least there are none of consequence that require a surgical hand and nothing anyone wants to waste the doctor’s time by looking at minimal bumps and scrapes.

“Good.  Y’all should go get some shuteye, there’s nothing more you can do tonight.”  The others silently leave to drown their miseries elsewhere but Spock lingers behind.  “I’ll stay with him,” assures McCoy, they couldn’t drag him away if they tried.

Spock nods, taking one last look at his Captain before he takes his leave to manage the rest of the gang’s grief.  McCoy flops down into the chair next to the bed and settles in for what will be a long night and even a longer week.

 


	11. Chapter 10

McCoy startles awake, pulling at the kink in his neck painfully.  Five days of sleeping on a hard wooden chair isn’t doing his body any favors but he can’t bring himself to leave in search of a proper bed.  He leans forward to check Kirk’s bandages but stops short when he notices a pair of blue eyes staring intently back at him.  It’s the first time Jim’s been awake since he was shot and Leonard can’t keep the smile off his face.  He hasn’t felt relief like this in a long time.

“You stuck around,” mumbles Kirk, like he thought McCoy would leave the second he pulled the bullet from his body or worse wouldn’t have come at all.  He knows he’s a grumpy bastard who’s hard to get along with but he did get into this profession to help people, no matter how annoying the patient is.

“It’s not very professional to leave a man so close to death, even if he is a troublesome little shit like you.”  He doesn’t mention that it soothed his guilt some to keep an eye on the kid.  He knows assuming any responsibility for situations Jim gets himself into is a full time job that will drive him to an early grave, but he does bear some responsibility in this case.  Even if he didn’t outright ask for vengeance he can’t help but feel as though he steered Kirk towards Ayel and the bullet he had waiting.

Jim wants to laugh but thinks better or it.  Breathing is an effort at the moment and indulging in something as simple as laughing promises swift and absolute pain for the moment of merriment.  “How bad is it?”  The words are soft and hesitant, as though Kirk’s just learning how to use his tongue.  He has a rough idea, remembers the blood, the unconcealed look of forlorn on Spock’s face and the blue streak McCoy swore while digging around in his gut, none to gently, for the bullet.

“Bad!” snaps McCoy like he’s scolding a child.  Any injury to these people is bad but trust Kirk to take it to the next level.  The gunslinger has a little bit of color now, but the thought of Kirk as pale as a ghost haunts him.  “You could have died!”

Kirk waves off his concern.  “I wasn’t worried, I knew you’d save me.”  Deep down, he really believes that, like he can jump and know for certain that the doctor and Spock will be there to catch him.  He hasn’t felt that sure about someone since his father would toss him up in the air as a small child in an attempt to touch the sky.

“Of all the stupid, harebrained...” sputters Leonard.  He presses the heel of his hands against his eyes to try and relieve some of the pressure building in his brain.   He’s not a human safety net damn it, and he’s not sure he can shoulder the personal responsibility of keeping Jim safe.

“Who’s Joanna?” Jim asks, drastically changing the course of the conversation.

The question throws McCoy, his brain unable to process exactly what he’s being asked.  A tense silence fills the tent.  It feels like a violation to hear his little girl’s name come out of someone else’s mouth now.  He doesn’t even feel he has the right to speak it. “How do you know about her?”

Jim looks concerned.  McCoy looks like he’s about to fall off the edge of a cliff and he isn’t sure if the push will be liberating or deadly.  “You called her name out in your sleep.  Who is she, Bones?”

“She’s my daughter,” confesses McCoy.  He can feel the back of his throat burn and he can’t quite swallow past the lump that’s forming.  That phantom cold stiff weight is back in his arms and he wants to pull it tight to his chest and breathe life back into it.

Kirk sits up a little higher, wincing as his side pulls.  “I didn’t know you have a daughter.”  They’d researched their options in doctors before they chose McCoy.  Admittedly, it was hastily done research, the clock working against them as Pike’s life slipped away.  There was no mention of the doctor in Federation City having a family and there was no sign within the residence of the child.  McCoy never once begged or demanded to be released on the grounds that he had a child waiting at home for him.

“I don’t,” he says sharply.  It’s more sad than bitter and spoken with a finality that’s hard to ignore.

“But you just said...”

McCoy suddenly becomes infatuated with the ground, his fingers spinning the ring on his last finger.  “She died.  A couple of years ago.”  When did the days turn to years?  He can still feel his baby girl in his arms like it was yesterday, like he just welcomed her into the world.

Kirk ponders the information for a while.  He feels like he’s prying, digging into something he has no business touching but it feels too important leave alone.  “How did it happen?”

There’s honest concern in Jim’s voice and he can’t seem to find it in himself to tell the kid to mind his own damn business.  Maybe if he’s honest about it, Kirk will realize McCoy’s not the miracle worker he believes him to be.  “She was five years old when Rigelian fever swept through our town.  Kids and the elderly are the most susceptible and without treatment it’s almost always fatal.  There was a shortage of the vaccine and the god damn shipment was late.  I couldn’t do anything to save her.”  Tears are flowing freely down his face and his hands instinctively form a cradle to hold his sweet little girl.  “She needed me to save her and I failed.”

Jim reaches out and grabs the doctor’s hand, giving him an anchor in his grief.  He gets it, the helplessness of watching someone you love die.  He knows the sorrow, the unending ache that’s always there threatening to burn you alive.  He’s also filled with rage; knows who’s really responsible for the doctor’s anguish because it has Nero’s fingerprints all over it and if not Nero specifically someone just like him.  Nero is the manifestation of everything that’s wrong in the world and there doesn’t seem to be an end of the nameless faceless carbon copies that ascribe to his values.  Jim realizes he’s lucky; he can put a name and a face to the monster pulling the strings in his life, McCoy has an illness who sure was sabotaged by some anonymous foe.  Desperate people pay a lot of money when needed medicines are in short supply and Nero’s built most of his empire off of selling those cures to wealthy grateful people while innocent people are left to suffer the consequences.  “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen to anyone else,” promises Kirk, with every fiber of his being.  

McCoy looks up at that, makes sure his eyes are locked with Jim’s when he asks, “Is going after Nero really worth it?”  Nero seems bigger than anything one gang can take on.  There’s going to be more bloodshed and without doubt, loss of life and it’s not even their war to wage.  These people are smart, especially the kid, surely they could find a town somewhere and reinvent themselves into upstanding members of society.  They could have families, live the dream instead of hiding out dodging bullets and living like villains.

“It is,” insists Kirk with more sincerity than he’s ever shown, because if it’s the last thing he ever does, he will make the son of a bitch pay.

“Why?”

“Nero murdered my father.”  The statement hangs heavy in the air.  “He was the sheriff in Federation City and when Nero couldn’t buy him, he rode in with his gang, dragged him out in the street for the whole town to see, and hung him.”  The swagger is gone, leaving only resentment and anger in its wake.  Kirk is raw and exposed in a way he strived never to be but doesn’t think McCoy will use it against him.

The sting seems fresh but McCoy hasn’t heard this story before and the town is filled with gossipers.  If the local sheriff had been murdered in cold blood recently, he would have been assaulted with the tale in the three years he’s called the town home.  “How old were you?”

“I was six years old when the son of a bitch made me watch my father hang.”  There’s a bitterness coming off of Jim, that McCoy is sure will never go away even if the kid does manage to get his revenge.  The wound is so deep and scared, it will never fade.  Leonard knows exactly what that devastation feels like.

* * *

 

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” demands McCoy, storming into the cookhouse.  The day had started out fine, but he should have known it would take Jim all of a minute to throw it into chaos.

Jim freezes in his tracks.  He didn’t hear the doctor ride in.  Once he was out of the woods, Leonard had returned to town with the looming threat that he’d be back every couple of days to check up on Jim.  Kirk feels like the threat has worked better than it should.  The uncertainty of the doctor’s visits makes it harder to know when he has to play the perfect patient and when he can carry on as he likes.  Now he’s caught in the act and unsure how to get himself out of the doctor’s dog house.   “Um... getting something to eat?”

McCoy stands there with his arms crossed glaring.  He has half a mind to tie Jim to the bed.  Not only would it be beneficial for the patient’s recovery but it would do wonder for his nerves too... and turnabout is fair play.  The crazy fool has no business walking around camp when he should be in bed recovering.  Jim’s already used up all of Leonard’s patients for his brand of shit the last time he came for a check up.  He can’t be held responsible for what happens when his last nerve finally gives out.  Life is precious and Jim treats it like a game he can’t lose.  “Is that a question or an answer?”

“An answer?” says Kirk sheepishly.  He doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios but this might be the exception to the rule.

“Do you have a death wish?”  McCoy asks, because if that’s the case, he can throw his hands up in surrender now and not waste anymore of his time trying to keep Kirk’s insides where they belong.  He’s reminded of his mother’s warning that you can take a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.

“No... I do have a wish for chicken though,” Jim counters with half-hearted defiance.  He was just looking for food, it wasn’t as though he was getting ready to rob a bank... yet.

McCoy shakes his head; it’s like dealing with children.  “What part of stay in bed is too difficult for you to understand?  You were shot, Jim, almost died.  Running around here is only going to tear the wound open again.”

“I’m hardly running anywhere,” counters Kirk with mild disgust.  Getting shot was inconvenient enough, having to recuperate on McCoy’s time line is putting a serious damper on their progress to take out Nero.  He’s put them all in this position, waiting, worrying over him and he’s limited by his own body on how he can make that right.  Right now he’s limping at a tortoise’s pace, not even close to running because if he could run, he knows he wouldn’t get caught if he could run.

Leonard points towards the door.  “Bed.”  He’s not beyond employing his parent voice, especially if Jim keeps acting like a delinquent.

Jim stands firm.  “Chicken dinner.”  He’s not sure it’s a good idea to lose too many fights to the doctor.  It’s not only going to set a bad precedent for their relationship but for the rest of the crew too.

“Bed.  And you should only be eating soup, which I’m sure someone around here will be happy to bring to you in bed.”

“I’m not ten years old, Bones,” he complains.

“Could have fooled me.”  Jim opens his mouth to protest further but Leonard raises his hand to silence him.  “Bed now, or I call Spock in here and have him pick you up and carry back to bed.”

Kirk glares fiercely.  “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” confirms the doctor.  He’s not above playing dirty if it saves Kirk from himself.  Better yet, he knows he can get anyone to do anything he asks around here if it’s for the benefit of Jim.   He’d even resort to getting Spock to do his bidding despite the fact that the pointed eared Vulcan is second on the list of people he absolutely wants to avoid owing any favors to.

“Fine,” snaps Jim with finality.  He can’t argue against the protectiveness of the gang and believes when push comes to shove in this scenario, they’ll take McCoy’s side.  He’s not sure he likes the idea of the doctor being able to supersede his orders in regards to his people.

“Fine,” Leonard agrees, as smug look of satisfaction creeping across his face as Kirk begins to hobble towards the door.

Jim pauses to look pointedly at his jailer.  “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he insists.  He’s sure retribution will be swift once Kirk can actually walk more than twenty feet but for the moment he’s going to enjoy it.  He waits until he sees the Captain actually cross the threshold of his tent before going to the stove and spooning out a helping of soup Sulu has been making for the patient.  He slices off a chicken leg and drops it in the bowl.  He can be reasonable and compromise slightly.

Jim’s sitting in bed pouting when McCoy brings him his soup.  The pout disappears though when he’s handed his lunch.  “So what’s been happening in the big bad city?” he asks around a mouthful of soup.  For being bandits, things around camp are rather boring when you’re forced to stay in bed and the only way to stave off the boredom is to live vicariously through everyone else.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” lectures McCoy as he raids the cupboards for the supplies to change Jim’s dressing.

Kirk frowns.  Usually there’s a story about some moron who injured himself doing something stupid that McCoy needs to rant about or a second hand tale about some of the more interesting people Gaila has met, but today the doctor seems tense at mention of the town.  “What’s going on, Bones?”

Leonard curses Jim’s perceptiveness; his problems aren’t Kirk’s concern, especially when he should be focusing on getting back on his feet.  He paces back and forth a few times, chewing on his bottom lip.  “I’m worried.”

“I can see that.”

“The town has been pushing settlement in the lands to the north and the first wagons of settlers came in last week.  Half of them were sick with Rigelian Fever.  If it spreads... the town can’t handle an outbreak.  I don’t have the supplies to stem an epidemic, Jim.  The town will be decimated.”  He’s lived through it once and isn’t sure he can do it again.  He’s already been approached by suppliers he’s sure work for Nero, about a guaranteed supply of medicine he can be provided with for a substantial price.  The average person won’t be able to afford it and McCoy’s financial resources are limited since the divorce; he can’t secure enough on his own to help very many people.  The mayor and sheriff have been made aware of the situation but don’t seem to share his concern; they seem to think things will work out.  Leonard knows they won’t.

Jim’s quiet.  He knows what this means for the town, for McCoy personally and curses his injury all the more.  He knows how to ease the doctor’s plight but not if he can barely sit on a horse.  The weight of being declared Captain is sitting heavily upon him.  The solution is clear but asking the others to jump in the fray without him seems unthinkable.  “It’ll be okay, Bones.”

Kirk’s optimism is infectious and he can’t help but feel slightly hopeful.  “Yeah, how do you know?”  he asks, because maybe if he knows for sure, can see the silver lining Jim sees for himself, he can be that sure too.

“Cause I know.”

McCoy sits down next to Jim and lifts up his shirt before unwrapping the bandages.  It looks better than it did when Scotty came to get him but it’s far from alright.  He probes around to make sure things are healing properly and rolls his eyes as Jim hisses in pain.  “Don’t be such an infant.”  He rewraps it in clean bandages and helps Kirk lay down.

“What’s the prognosis?”

“You’ll live,” huffs McCoy.  Deep down, he’s really relieved, despite what it probably means for his own life expectancy.  Meeting Jim Kirk has taken years off his life.

“I thought so,” says Kirk with unwavering assurance.

Leonard tries really hard not to picture Jim lying there covered in blood, eyes bright with pain.  It was very close and he’s not sure Kirk appreciates just how close he came to death.  “You’ll be back to being a menace in no time.”

“Good.”  Jim stifles a yawn, his eyes growing heavy.  “I’ve got things to do.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” mutters the doctor as he watches Kirk drift off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 11

“McCoy’s not going to show up today, right?” asks Kirk conspiratorially.It feels like he’s trying to sneak something past his parents; the ever looming threat of the doctor berating him for his stupidity shadowing his every move.Normally he’d be on point, able to deflect anything thrown at him but things are still a little fuzzy around the edges and it’s taking all of his effort to focus on the task at hand and not have to worry about a defense at the same time.

Sulu just chuckles and shakes his head no.As much as the doctor has the Captain looking over his shoulder since getting shot, he’s got the rest of the gang under threat too.If there was even the possibility of McCoy making a house call today, Jim would still be locked away in bed.

“Good, down to business.”Jim slaps his palms against the kitchen table to get everyone’s attention.“I’ve got our next job.”

“Captain, do you believe it wise to enter an engagement with Nero so soon?” questions Spock.He’s concerned not only for the Captain’s physical limitations at the moment but the possibility of rushing into action hastily and repeating the shortcomings that put them in their current situation.

Jim deflates a little.Their last encounter had ended badly and he hates to think that Nero is sitting somewhere gloating about his men’s accomplishment.Worse, Jim hasn’t even organized a response to their encounter with Ayel; he doesn’t like them thinking they’ve won.“While we need to wipe the smug looks of satisfaction off their faces, Spock, I will not be a part of this operation nor is it about revenge.”

Spock looks contemplative if not a little relieved while everyone else looks intrigued.They usually engage in rounds of tit for tat when one of their own has been wronged; brushing it off to get back to work and focus on the bigger picture is more of a Pike action rather than a Kirk play.

“McCoy’s worried there will be an outbreak of Rigelian Fever in town and Nero’s already set himself up to control the flow of supplies.The doctor has looked after us, now it’s our turn to return the favor.I want all of you to track down the shipments going out in the next few days.Take anything that’s supposed to go to Federation City.As for the shipments to other towns, only take what they can spare, we don’t want to leave them in the lurch.Work in teams and do it as discreetly as possible.Steal it in the middle of the night if you have to, but do not engage Nero’s men.”

Scotty scoffs a little.“We can handle those brogues...”

“You will not engage, Mr Scott.”Everyone holds their tongues at the Captain’s firm shutdown.“We’ll get our revenge, but not now.Spock, you’ll see to the details?”

“Yes, Captain,” assures Spock.

“Dismissed.”Everyone gets up and leaves and Kirk leans heavy against the table.He takes a deep breath and hopes the room will stop spinning.

“Captain?” prompts Spock, his voice full of concern.

Jim realizes he hadn’t noticed that Spock didn’t leave with everyone else.“I’m alright.”He aims for reassuring but knows he’s fallen slightly short.It isn’t that bad; gun to his head he could soldier through.The injury is not the problem, he’s had his fair share and dusted himself off and asked for more, it’s just how close he came to death.Death isn’t really the problem either, they’re intimate friends, but the thought of checking out before Nero pays for everything he’s done, is a led weight around his neck.Everyday Nero is alive adds another name to the list of people Jim could have saved and hasn’t.

If they don’t find the supplies, Federation City is going to be devastated.He doesn’t wish harm on innocent people, but understands that sometimes it’s the cost of doing business.Nameless and faceless makes the pain of failure a little easier to bear.This time it won’t be nameless people getting hurt; McCoy’s going to be the one that suffers.Jim doesn’t want him to have to sit by and helplessly watch people die, knows it will eat the doctor from the inside out.

“You are not.”Spock pulls Jim’s arm over his shoulder, taking some of his weight, and escorts him back to bed. 

“This war is getting expensive,” he mumbles.The great thing about Spock is he doesn’t need to elaborate.Somewhere along the line the Vulcan developed a Jim sense that has put them in tune with one another. 

“Nonetheless, we will be triumphant.”

Jim crawls back into bed, completely wiped.He envy’s Spock’s certainty, hasn’t felt that sure in what they’re doing since Pike was shot.“How can you be so sure?”

“It is the only logical outcome,” he says before leaving Kirk to rest and to begin preparations for their upcoming raids.

* * *

 

It’s Uhura that’s waiting for McCoy when he comes back for his weekly check up of Jim.She looks like she has something important to say and since no one is ever waiting specifically for him to show up, his stomach begins to turn nervously.He knows all about breaking bad news for people, he does it for a living and this looks like bad news in spades.That, or he’s managed to piss her off and he can’t remember doing anything to incur Uhura’s wrath.

“If you don’t clear him to go back to his daily activities he’s going to drive us all mad,” she states, smooth and fierce.He can only imagine the pain in the ass Kirk has been confined to camp and is mildly impressed with Uhura’s restraint in not maiming him.Still, hell hath no fury like a woman, and he understands the promise of personal retribution against him if she has to endure anymore of Kirk’s waywardness. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, though it’s not really in his hands.Truth is, if it were anyone else he would have left them to their own devices weeks ago, but Kirk has a knack for trouble, so playing it safe seems the most prudent course of action.He has no desire to be back here next week in a similar situation.

“You better.”She turns sharply, grace and power in one small package, and stomps off towards Spock’s tent.

McCoy grabs his medical bag and wanders the all too familiar path towards Kirk’s tent.Jim’s sitting up in bed, bright eyed and full of pent up energy as he plays a hand of cards against Sulu.Kirk lights up when he sees the doctor, the mischievous smile promising trouble displaying his white teeth.“Hey, Bones, here to give me a clean bill of health?”

“I didn’t realize everyone here was a doctor,” he retorts, depositing his bag on the table.

Sulu throws his hand down.“Well today I’m just a cook, so when you’re done here, Doc, there’ll be a bowl of beef stew waiting for you.”Hikaru excuses himself, leaving Leonard to perform his exam.

Jim doesn’t say anything while McCoy pokes and prods, just smiles like a Cheshire cat.McCoy may be being extra thorough in his duties when he realizes Kirk’s waiting for him to ask what the big secret is.He isn’t willing to give the Captain the satisfaction of him asking just yet.Finally, when he’s sure Jim’s about to explode if he doesn’t share, he asks, “What are you smiling about?”

“I don’t know,” teases Jim, “am I free from your clutches?”

“The wounds healed nicely. I have no medical ground to stop you from doing you next stupid, idiotic, childish, harebrained...”

“I get it,” insists the Captain, halting the doctor’s rather long list of adjectives.

McCoy shakes his head.  “I don’t think you do.”

Jim rolls his eyes.He has to admire McCoy’s passion but it is trying when he’s on the receiving end.“I have these cases of Ryetalyn and no idea what to do with them.I was thinking what with your medical expertise you might know where it could be useful?”

Leonard’s sure he gapes like a fish for a few seconds.It’s the solution to his biggest concern all wrapped up neat with a bow.It’s probably one of the most generous and selfless things he’s been a part of in his whole life but has a nagging suspicion he won’t like the origin of this miracle.“How did you come across that?”His imagination is going wild with possible scenarios, each one he likes less than the one before it.

“Before you get mad, I did not participate in anything beyond the planning.Furthermore, we did not steal it from anyone who needs it, so you can keep that off your conscious.Spock noticed Nero had made some miscalculations and shipping errors and was nice enough to correct those oversights.”

“And Nero being nothing but generous decided to donate these supplies to the good people of Federation City?” asked McCoy with blatant skepticism.

“He is all about generous acts,” insists Jim, before giving into his laughter.

“Thank you,” says Leonard, warm and sincere.The supplies will help countless people and the fact that Kirk and company were willing to do such a thing to make his life easier instills a sense of camaraderie.He begrudgingly has to admit there might be something likeable under all the swagger and infantile behaviour.

Kirk squirms uncomfortably.For all the attention he seeks in life, genuine heartfelt praise makes him uncomfortable.“Scotty will help you load up the supplies and take you back into town.”

When McCoy heads back to town that evening, he feels lighter than he has in a long time.His friends, and now he can say he has friends because at the very least they deserve that, pulled out a miracle and more importantly, are all alive to see the fruits of their labor.When he goes to bed, he doesn’t need a bottle to stop the nightmares.It’s the first time in years he doesn’t feel like giving up, like something might finally sprout from the dirt that’s covered his happiness.

* * *

 

Things fall back into their familiar pattern after that.Scotty comes with someone for their weekly nights of drinking and the air of dread that had been floating around everyone when Jim was shot has finally disappeared.With the available medicine, McCoy manages to keep the few cases of Rigelian Fever that pop up from spreading into a full blown epidemic.

The biggest medical disaster that occurs is a farm accident on one of the outlying ranches.One of the young ranch hands was thrown from his horse breaking several bones in both his leg and his arm.It takes McCoy the whole day to travel out to the ranch and tend to his patient and he’s thankful for their hospitality when they let him stay the night instead of trying to make the journey back to town in the dark.

The next day is a long ride back to town and Leonard’s exhausted by the time he gets home.He wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and take a nap.He knows he’s tired, so it’s completely his fault when he bumps into the man loitering along the boardwalk in front of his office.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, trying to step around.He moves to the side only to find his way blocked by the man again.He raises his head and gets a god look at who’s blocking his path.“You look familiar.”Leonard can’t quite place where he’s seen him before but knows that he has.The town has a couple hundred people living within its jurisdiction and while McCoy may not know everything about most of them, he knows all their faces and this man is not one of them.

“I know you too, Doctor,” he says, low and menacing.He’s a wall of a man, towering over Leonard with a cold stare.“Your friends held me at gun point during your little train heist,” he elaborates.

McCoy knows he’s in trouble even before the man wraps his large fist around his arm and drags him forcibly into his office.None of the passengers from the train have any cause for vengeance against what happened out there and they shouldn’t have any cause to seek out McCoy personally.His heart is pounding in his chest as icy fear crawls along his bones.

His dread only amplifies as he sees his office full of heavily armed men.Nothing good is going to happen here today and whatever they’ve come for, McCoy’s not in a position to stop them.He fixes them all with the harshest glare he can muster and stands rigidly straight.It’s obvious most of them are hired muscle, probably to the well-dressed man casually sitting at Leonard’s desk with his feet up.

“Doctor McCoy?” asks the leader.

McCoy gives him a measured nod, not sure he can trust his voice just yet.

“Good.Leonard, I’m Nero,” he says joyfully, an evil smile spreading out towards his ears.

“I know who you are, your reputation precedes you,” snaps McCoy.He can feel the impressive presence of the man behind him guarding the door and the sharp eyes of the men surrounding Nero fix in on him.

“That’s good.”Nero jumps to his feet and crosses the room to stand in front of McCoy.“Then I don’t need to paint a picture of what happens to people who get in my way.”

Instinctively, Leonard wants to take a step back, to put some distance between himself and Nero but he forces himself to stay still.There’s nowhere to run anyways.

Nero leans in closer, so his mouth is right by the doctor’s ear and snarls, “Where’s my little friend James Kirk hiding?”

Dread is a feral animal trying to claw its way out of McCoy’s gut.His heartbeat ramps up a couple of notches at the mention of Kirk’s name.Jim had been so careful to keep the identities of the gang under wraps not only to keep his people safe but to put a buffer between Leonard and their illegal activities.No one should have been able to connect them together except... he lost his mask in the scuffle to save Jim’s life; everyone got a good view of his face, especially the guards they took prisoner.McCoy is now the potential linchpin in Kirk’s carefully laid plans.“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says.

Nero raises his hand letting it gently rest against McCoy’s neck for a moment before he begins to squeeze painfully.Stars appear in his vision as Leonard struggles to get air past Nero’s firm grip.

“Don’t play stupid doctor.It insults us both.”Nero’s voice is filled with warning and promises of the horrible things to come, leaving little room for amusement at the doctor’s stubbornness.“I see my shipment of Ryetalyn has found a new home here, so I know Kirk has graced you with his thievery.”

Leonard wants to argue that the town has little choice but to resort to thievery of supplies if they want to survive under Nero’s iron fist.While theft isn’t his first choice for procurement he believes it’s better to steal a loaf of bread than to starve to death; this is just a different type of necessity.If Kirk’s Robin Hood shtick makes him the good guy than Nero is none other than the Sheriff of Nottingham.Bad guys don’t get to hunt down the good guys.He’d educate Nero on this and more if he could just suck in a mouthful of air. 

McCoy’s fingers are clawing uselessly at Nero’s hand.The edges of his vision are growing fuzzy and black as his eyes start to roll in the back of his head.He just starts to slump, when the hand suddenly releases and he flops to the floor gasping in air and caressing his throat.He can hear the amused chuckle of the hired guns enjoying his predicament as he remains huddled on the floor.

Nero squats down next to him, his hand tangling in the doctor’s hair and wrenching his head up.“Care to try again?”

“I don’t know where he is,” replies Leonard with more conviction then he thought himself capable.He can’t see these people letting him live and his final act in this world isn’t going to be selling out the people that went out of their way to help the town.

“I can be reasonable, Doctor, but don’t try my patients.All I want is Kirk and Spock, you don’t have to be a part of this.”

If the man hadn’t just tried to strangle him, he might believe the look of sincerity on his face.As it stands, the lie does nothing to convince Leonard to give up his friends even if they are in a better position to handle Nero than he is now.He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor to hide his fear.“I won’t tell you where they are.”

The explosion of pain starts in his jaw and ricochets through his skull as Nero’s fist connects solidly with the side of his face.There’s enough force behind the hit that the doctor ends up flying across the room slamming into the shelves against the wall.Breaking glass and cracking boards fill the room before the final thud of McCoy’s limp body hitting the floor.His vision swims briefly before he sees nothing at all.

“Take him,” orders Nero, looking at the doctor’s blood on his hand.He stares at the wall that used to be covered in shelving and smiles.If he can’t get the doctor to tell him what he wants to know, he’ll give Kirk the opportunity to find him.

 


	13. Chapter 12

It takes a lot of effort to pry his lips apart; all he can taste is the dried blood coating the inside of his mouth.  McCoy cracks his eyes open to find only one actually obeys his command.  It’s incredibly hot and he lifts his head minutely to get a firmer grasp of his surroundings.  It’s an uncovered wagon he’s sprawled in, baking in the hot sun.  A pitiful groan escapes him and he lets his head thunk back to the ground, unable to support it.  Every time he thinks things can’t get any worse he manages to surprise himself, which is a feat considering he’s a natural pessimist.  A dark face looms over him, all smile and teeth- pleasure in his agony.

“He’s awake.”

The wagon stops abruptly jostling him and setting off a cascade of pain.  There’s the sound of movement around him but his mind is too fuzzy to track it.  He does feel his hands wrenched together, the sharp unrelenting bite of rope snaking around his wrists until his hands start to go tingly.  “Wadda you doin?” he mumbles around the pain in his jaw and uncooperative tongue.

“No free rides Doctor,” declares someone outside of his vision.  He knows that voice; it sends a chill down his spine.  “Especially ones that don’t cooperate.”  There’s an undercurrent of joy tainting the taunt that promises misery to whoever should befall it.

McCoy doesn’t have to ponder what that means for long as two sets of hands roll him over the edge of the wagon onto the hard unforgiving ground.  He can’t even break his fall with his hands tied and smacks his already bruised and swollen face. 

“You might want to get on your feet.”  Nero’s sitting high on his horse looking down at the doctor like a dog on a leash and given the circumstances, Leonard supposes he is.

The wagon starts moving again and McCoy has precious seconds to get his feet underneath him before he gets dragged along.  He’s woozy and tired and wants nothing more than to sit down and lick his wounds but anything more than putting one unsteady foot in front of the other isn’t an option.  The wagon will keep pulling him along whether or not he can keep up.

They trek along for hours, the sun burning bright above.  McCoy can feel his skin burning in this heat and his throat became unbearably dry an hour ago.  His legs are aching both from being made to follow behind the wagon that doesn’t care how tired he is and from scrapes and cuts he’s gotten from stumbling and not staying upright.  His hands are numb now and the pain in his feet has been so constant it’s become background noise.

There’s nothing in the distance just more rocks and desert and McCoy’s not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to keep his feet under him at this pace.  He knows what will end this, what will put an end to suffering he’s sure is just beginning if Nero shares the same passion for Kirk that Kirk does for him.  Still he doesn’t say anything, won’t while he still has control over himself.  He’ll keep his friends safe; tries to tell himself he’ll keep that promise no matter what agony he endures.

They’ve been travelling so long, even the sun is giving up.  It’s kissing the rocks in the distance but McCoy’s brain is so fried he can’t even look forward to the temperature dropping.  He’s lost himself in the mindless rhythm of forcing one foot in front of the other and half the time he’s not sure he’s managing it.  He’s spending more and more time trying to pick himself up than staying upright.  The side of his face is chewed up from the ground and his wrists are open and bleeding from the unrelenting tug of the rope.

When his foot hooks on a shrub it sends him crashing to the ground.  He struggles to pull in a breath that doesn’t contain sand and sends himself into a coughing fit for his troubles.  His determination is and he can’t convince his legs to cooperate anymore, can’t get his feet to take his weight.  He does manage to flip over onto his back to keep his face from continuing to drag along the ground.  He can feel every little stone and rock dig into his back, cutting into it and letting the sand burn his flesh.  He’s not getting back up from this no matter what he tries or how much he wants to; he’s not sure he wants to anymore.  He’s tired, he hurts, and can’t take one more step.  It isn’t long before it becomes too much and he blessedly passes out.

* * *

 

He’s not dead, is the first thought that shoots through his head like a railway spike.  Leonard’s not sure if he’s grateful or not.  He can’t move and it has nothing to do with the metal shackles that are now around his wrists.  He feels like he’s spent the last few days being pulled apart on a medieval rack; none of his muscles have the slightest interest in performing in any measure.  He lays in the dark coolness of what appears to be a cellar, feeling like he’s moving a mountain even though he’s just trying to suck in air.  He can’t imagine he’s a pretty sight, there’s no place on his body that doesn’t produce at least a small ache. 

The silence is almost as comforting as the darkness.  Alone equates to safe when kidnapped and he kind of hates the fact that he can compare kidnappings at all, let alone know the pros and cons of each moment.  He isn’t certain how long he was unconscious but the small streaks of light that peek through the slats in the cellar door mean it was at least a night.  People might have noticed he’s gone missing but the only ones that might be spurred to do anything about it won’t notice he’s gone for another two days.  Even then, will Kirk or Scotty realize he’s not making a house call? 

He’s pretty sure Jim will look, but looking doesn’t mean finding and it could be weeks before anyone thinks of coming for him, assuming there will be anything to find.  He has to keep himself alive in order to be rescued and at the moment that seems the second most daunting task of his life.

Through the shadows he can just make out a bowl sitting on the floor.  It can’t be more than five feet away but in his condition it might as well be a hundred.  His aching thirst demands he reach the bowl.  Even if it isn’t water, anything that needs to be in a bowl has some moisture to it.  He begins the painstaking crawl towards the bowl, which is more of him rolling and wiggling his battered body towards it than anything resembling a crawl.

It is water in the bowl, stale room temperature water but it is the most glorious thing McCoy’s ever pushed past his lips.  It’s degrading to drink water like a dog, and deep down he knows that’s the point to this little set up but he’s too thirsty to care.  They have to keep him alive; he has information they need.  As long as he can hold on to that information he can extend his life expectancy long enough for Jim to rescue him.  That’s his life’s defining irony, it’s Jim Kirk that’s going to save his life.

After a couple of mouthfuls he curls into himself.  Who knows when he’ll get more, so he has to make it last as long as possible.  He lays in the darkness trying to not let his imagination make the situation worse than it already is.  He’s very good at imagining horrors and has the medical knowledge to paint himself a vivid picture of exactly what a man can do to another man.

* * *

 

The ominous creaking of the cellar door and clomping of heavy boots down the old wooden stairs penetrates McCoy’s oblivion.  He glances up at his visitor, unable to move his stiff neck.  It’s not Nero and he isn’t sure where to rate this interaction on his scale of fear.  The man circles around him analyzing every inch with his hungry eyes.  Without a doubt, Leonard knows he’s going to be for dinner.

He can only see out of one eye but he’s seeing double with it.  Still, through the low light of the oil lamp his captor brought down with him, the man’s pointed ears stand out.  “You’re Vulcan?” he asks, hoarse and barely audible.  His surprise is measurable; everything Spock has said about his people has depicted them as honourable and logical, throwing in with Nero seems neither.

The man sneers at the very mention of the tribe.  “Hardly.  I’m Ayel and I hear you have information Nero wants.”  Ayel makes a show of cracking his knuckles.  The black lines of war paint add extra horror to his vicious sneer.  Surely this is the inspiration for any picture constructed of the devil.  “And he doesn’t care how I get it for him.”

McCoy has two options and the decision on which path to choose really only has any value now.  If he’s going to break, he might as well spare himself the torment and do it now instead of dragging out his suffering only to get the same result.  He weighs his conscious against his soul and declares himself a masochist.  “Well let’s get on with it then,” he snarls with as much force as he can mange.

Ayel smiles, big and bright like everything he ever wanted in life has just been handed to him on a silver platter.  The doctor will be a veritable smorgasbord of pain and suffering and he intends to dine as long as possible.

Leonard can’t even force his body to fight as Ayel lifts him up with surprisingly little effort and secures his shackles to a hook in the roof.  A moan slithers past his lips as his arms bear all his weight, his feet barely scraping against the ground.  He’s hung like a piece of meat at a slaughter house and feels about the same as the cow that it used to be.

The first punch sucks the air out of his lungs and sends a shockwave of pain through his already abused body as he tries to double over and can’t.  So as not to be out done or forgotten, all of his previous injuries cry out demanding acknowledgement.  The blows keep coming, raining down like a hail storm.  The one blessing of being so worn is he can’t tense up in anticipation of Ayel’s fists.  His slack body dispels some of the energy being thrown at him but not enough to make the experience painless. 

He can feel the warm trickle of blood creep its way down his chin and neck from his split lip.  The only thing providing warmth is his splattered blood but that quickly dries and clings to his skin uncomfortably.  Things start to grow dark as his tenuous grip on consciousness begins to slip.  Before he goes under completely he can’t help but feel bad for the poor son of a bitch he can hear crying out in pain.

* * *

 

McCoy isn’t sure if he’s helping or hindering the effort to move him.  He’s telling his addled brain to move his feet in an order to make it easier on himself but he can’t tell if it’s working or not.  If it’s not, then he’s a hindrance to the muscle dragging him through the house and he can’t summon up the energy to care if he’s making their job difficult.  Screw it, he kind of hopes he’s making them work for it.  He’d spit at someone for kicks if he was able to get enough moisture in his mouth.  He hopes they take the time to bury his body, not for any religious reasons he’s taken to ignoring since his daughter’s death yet tenuously clings to in the dark when gripped by nightmares, but for the satisfaction of being a nuisance after he’s gone.  He was dragged here behind the wagon and knows for a fact the ground is going to be hard to break; they’ll have to work for it.  The thought makes him a little giddy.

He lets out a grunt as he deposited on the hard wooden arm chair none too gently.  His head falls to his chest as he slumps forward.  Trying to keep it up would require energy and he’s using all he has left just to keep breathing.  It wouldn’t matter much anyways, his left eye has been swollen shut since he left town and he can only force the right one open a slit.

The fire is roaring in the parlor and grants a gentle warmth to stave off the season chill that comes with night.  Leonard lets the warm hands of heat wrap around him and sends the cold of the cellar running towards his extremities. 

His skin itches from the dried blood that he’s wearing like armour, war paint in a battle he didn’t choose to fight.  A morose chuckle works its way free as he mentally catalogues the damage to his body and comes with nothing life threatening.  Hell, he doesn’t even think anything is broken.  He shouldn’t be in this much pain if he’s not dying. 

“Is something funny, Leonard?” asks Nero, idly swirling his brandy from his plush armchair looking nonplus.

“Nuffin’,” slurs the doctor, then gives a half-hearted shrug.  “Everythang?”

Nero leans forward in his chair, eyes dark and menacing.  “You know what I think is funny?”

“Your ears are pointy?”  Even though it hurts like hell, he chuckles at his own joke.  Deep down he knows it’s not even funny, especially given the circumstances, but he’s had a few screws knocked loose thanks to Ayel so he might as well enjoy his insanity.

“I think it’s funny that you’re wasting your life protecting someone like James Kirk.”

Right, that’s why he’s here.  McCoy sobers a little.  He’s aiming to do right by people who don’t always do right themselves, but certainly do more good at the end of the day than those sanctimonious bastards who claim to be good.  He can hear Nero begin to pace around him.

“You’re a doctor, are you not?”  It’s rhetorical and they both know it; the silence its own answer.  “Kirk and his merry band of pirates steal much needed medical supplies, supplies that good people like you and those in Federation City need.  Why would you protect someone that puts the people you’re in charge of caring for in danger?”

A small flicker of anger ignites within him and grits his teeth as he forces his head up.  He locks onto Nero with his one eye and scowls with every fiber of his being.  “Loyalty.”  It’s one word but it has never meant so much.  “He’s not the criminal, you are.”

Kirk’s probably never met a rule he didn’t intend to break but somehow the kid’s heart is in the right place, even if his methods are not.  Jim’s a criminal with a heart while Nero has draped himself in the cloak of upstanding business man who preys on the innocent under the guise of capitalism.  Both do wrong but if the ends justify the means, Leonard likes Kirk’s means a whole lot more.  Sometimes you have to cut the leg off to save the patient, but the goal _is_ still to save the patient.

Nero stops behind him, his hands falling heavily on the doctor’s shoulders.  His fingers tighten hard enough to leave bruises if there weren’t already y some there, as he snarls, “And what has Kirk done to inspire your loyalty?  He’s the reason you’re here now, alone, in pain.  I’m going to kill him sooner or later so what does your suffering get you?”

The question knocks something loose in his brain.  What does his suffering ever get him?  He fights and he fights and he endures all the pain but what has it gotten him in life except more pain?  He fought hard for Joanna and lost.  He struggled to hold his marriage together and it fell apart.  He’s going to die to protect Jim Kirk of all people, and in the end Nero will probably kill the kid anyways, either directly or through obsession.  Pain has gotten him nothing but he can’t seem to make things easy on himself.  “Good people have to stand up to people like you.”

Nero kneels down in front of the doctor intent on looking him in the eye.  He grabs the man’s face tightly to make sure he can’t turn away when he asks, “Are you a good person, Doctor McCoy?”

Nero can see into his very soul; will see if his next words are truthful or not.  McCoy shakes his head as best he can in the man’s grip.  “No.  But I’d like to be.”

His hands slip away from Leonard as he strides towards the door and gestures to the man lurking just outside.  “Perhaps we can accommodate you.”  He takes his seat and tops off his brandy.  An amused smile plays at his lips as the doctor watches Ayel walk in with McCoy’s medical bag and begins pulling out scalpels and saws.

“Once upon a time, when this area was still being settled, I found employment with the railway.  They needed men like me to persuade farmers and savages alike that the railway had better uses for the land and they were standing in the way of industry.  In addition to that, they needed someone to mind their workforce, keep the men in line and the workers from running away before they paid off their debt to the company.  I didn’t much care for Chinese coolies but some of their tradition was fascinating.  Ever heard of something called death of a thousand cuts?”

Each of Nero’s words are punctuated by the pounding of Leonard’s heart.  He hates the man’s voice, but it’s the only thing to ground him in the darkness of his fear as he watches Ayel lovingly stroke his medical tools.  Tools that by his hand are instruments of healing and now they’re going to be used in his undoing.  He takes a deep breath and steels himself for what’s to come.  He can’t seem to find any comfort in the idea that suffering is good for the soul.


	14. Chapter 13

 “Ladies,” say Kirk appreciatively, turning to follow the two women who pass him on the boardwalk with his eyes.  His smile grows even more as they duck into the saloon and he knows it’s going to be a good night.  If he can figure out what’s taking Scotty so long to grab the doctor, that is.  It’s his first visit to town in he can’t remember how long and he’s filled with the excitement of finally being able to carry on without Leonard getting all huffy and doctor-y on his ass. 

He’s practically floating as he walks towards the doctor’s office, his good mood won’t be discouraged.  And if it had driven Uhura crazy and baffled Spock, it’s just another feather in his cap for what promises to be a good day.

“Scotty,” he sings opening the office door.  “What’s the hold up?”

Scotty turns and looks remorsefully at Kirk, his hat held in his hands.  The smile vanishes from Jim’s face as he takes in the wall the Scotsman is standing in front of.  Scotty just lets his mouth open and close a few times like he’s trying to find the words to apologise, like he’s somehow failed his Captain by letting this happen.

Jim stands beside Scotty, reading and rereading the message scrawled across the wall in blood.  The words don’t make sense, or rather they do but Kirk can’t get them to slot into his brain properly to understand.  The place is a wreck and it doesn’t bode well for the owner.  “Bones!” he shouts hoping for some sign that things aren’t as bad as they look.  The silence is deafening.  “Bones!”

“He ain’t here, sir.  They’ve... they’ve taken ’im.”  Scotty’s voice is quiet and solemn like he’s afraid of waking the dead.

Jim sinks down.  He’s forgotten how to breathe; he needs a doctor.  He needs Bones and he isn’t here.  He’s tired of all the people Nero keeps dragging between them.  Leonard has nothing to do with their quarrel and certainly doesn’t deserve this.  That fact alone should have tipped him off that he’d firmly paced a target on Leonard’s back.  His world narrows to the red letters on the wall and the uncertainty of whether or not it would be better to know McCoy was alive right now.  He doesn’t wish the doctor dead but he knows what Nero’s capable of and death might be the last mercy he can hope for his friend now that he’s in the mad man’s clutches.

_You can’t protect your people, James._

_If you want your friend to be spared the bootyard,_

_Meet me where it all began and we can end this_

The message sears into his brain with a force like the railway blasting its way through the mountains.  Nero’s right, he’s failed to keep those important to him safe; he seems to offer them up to Nero on a silver platter.  This will end though.  Determination and rage flow through him like liquor at the saloon, his hands clenching into fists beside his guns.  He has a bullet with Nero’s name on it and if he’s harmed McCoy in any way, it won’t find its way into Nero’s skull.  That would be too quick for the bastard.  It’ll find its way into a less deadly part of Nero along with two dozen of its closest friends and even that slow kind of death would be too merciful. 

“Get the horses,” snaps Jim like thunder.  He’s tense, ready to crack like lightening and it unfortunately doesn’t matter who gets in his way.

“Sir?” poses Scotty hesitantly.  He has a sinking feeling he might not like what comes next.

“We’re getting the gang and stopping Nero once and for all.”

* * *

 

“Spock! Trouble,” shouts Uhura as she watches Kirk and Scotty come riding in like the law is on their tails.  She can see the urgency in their speed and tries to clamp down hard on the dread rising up in her chest.  They’re early and that can mean nothing but trouble.

The call alerts everyone to the potential danger and they gather around the returning riders.  Kirk hops off his horse, his anger written clearly in every line of his body.  “Nero’s taken McCoy.”  Dread sweeps over the group like death in the night.  Uhura covers her mouth to hide her gasp and Chekov pales considerably.  Sulu and even Spock look tense as they watch Kirk frantically pace in front of them.

His anger needs an avenue of escape and Jim has nothing to do but pace.  He needs a plan, he needs to act, he just needs to get to McCoy now.  He knows how this ends, has had a front row ticket to the show and can’t let that happen to Leonard.  “Load the guns, we’re taking Nero down.”  Everyone stands eerily still, their brains still trying to comprehend events.  Jim storms towards their munitions tent, prepared to do everything himself if everyone needs precious seconds to process. 

Spock takes off after Jim, hot on his heels.  “I feel it is my duty to advise you of the errors in this plan.”

Kirk stops short, rounding on his Vulcan counterpart.  He knows Spock means well and has the gang and his welfare at the forefront of his mind but seconds are ticking by.  Spock can make everything black and white but Jim lives somewhere in shades of rage, action and compulsion.   “Nero has McCoy.  We’re going after him,” he snaps.  It’s a simple equation in his world even if everyone else wants to add and consider variables.  Spock isn’t culpable in any of this but Jim’s rage needs to be directed somewhere and Spock is currently the voice of decent for his brash and impulsive needs.

“We are not prepared for this engagement,” cautions Spock.  Their objective may be clear, the specifics are unknown and what will get them killed.  The mission will end in complete failure or with casualties Kirk won’t be able to stomach; sometimes he has to save Jim from himself no matter how much it hurts the Captain.

“I don’t care,” declares Jim exasperated.  “He has Bones.”

Spock raises his voice fractionally, it’s as close as the Vulcan rarely gets to ‘yelling.’ “You are not thinking clearly.  Getting ourselves killed will not help the doctor’s plight.”

Jim deflates slightly.  He’s hears Spock rattle on about the needs of the many versus the needs of the few and he knows he can’t ask the gang to ride into the unknown for one person and no guarantee that one person is even still alive.  Still, right now the one seems pretty important but he doesn’t want to lay the lives of his team at McCoy’s feet if something should befall them during rescue.   “He’s in this mess because _we_ put him there.”  If McCoy is hurt or worse, is dead, then it’s on them, especially Jim; they owe it to the man to at least try.

“That may be, but if we truly wish to rescue the doctor, we must formulate a plan and explore what we know to optimise our success.”  He waits patiently for Jim to nod in agreement, then wraps his hand around his Captain’s arm as he sags slightly and takes him to the cookhouse to begin organizing a plan.

Everyone follows them into the tent, poised and ready.  They listen intently to everything Kirk and Scotty relay about the message and the doctor’s office.  There’s an unease that settles over everyone.  They are all intimately familiar with Nero’s handiwork in one form or another and their imaginations are creating some awful scenarios regarding their doctor’s fate.  And he is _their_ doctor, despite his best efforts to tell them otherwise.  McCoy didn’t fold and beg when he was captured and brought to camp, nor did he try to kill them all in their sleep during his stay.  He did the honorable thing in helping Pike in the most dire of circumstances and did it with grace and compassion toward the people who held him hostage; he never wavered in his conviction.   He shares their spirit and that makes him theirs.  No one hurts one of theirs and gets away with it.

“So he wants to have a show down in Federation City?  That seems like it would bring a little too much attention to him,” comments Sulu.  It brings a little too much attention to both parties not to mention the possible casualties and unknown of fighting in and around the townspeople. 

Jim shakes his head starring intently at the map on the table.  “The message was for me personally.  It didn’t start in town between us.”

“I thought he killed Sheriff Kirk in town.  If that’s not where it started then where is he talking about?” asks Uhura.  She’s better versed in the specifics of Kirk’s tragic start than most of their gang.  Everyone knows the basics but not everyone has her hearing or happened to stumble across a very drunk Jim relaying his heartfelt tale to Spock when he thought they were alone.

Everyone looks intently at the Captain who looks like he’s a million miles away.  His eyes are burning a hole in the map like he can rewrite the past if he just eradicated any trace of the places it happened in.  He lets out a long sigh.  “My father started out as a deputy.  Back then we were still living out on the family farm.  When he became sheriff we moved into town; can’t protect a town if it takes you half a day to get there.  A couple days before we left the farm, Nero and his riders showed up to talk to dad.  I remember hiding up in the loft as they discussed Nero’s business proposition.”  A sad smile crosses Jim’s lips.  “Dad refused, of course, told them to get the hell off his property and stay out of his town.  I thought I had been quiet, cause dad would have sent me to the house if he knew I was there, but just as Nero turned to leave he looked right at me and smiled.  Tipped his hat and told me he’d see me around.”

A long silence settles, no one even so much as fidgeting as Kirk tries to hold himself together under the weight of his memories.  “It was later that year that Nero came to town to make an example of what happens when you don’t bow down to him, but it was the argument in the barn that started it all.  After dad... after that mom couldn’t bring herself to stay in town let alone move back to the farm.  Instead she took us back to her home town of Riverside.  Never sold the property though, still have the deed to the land so it’s been vacant ever since.  Nero could absolutely be holding up there.”

Spock shifts he weight, hands clasped behind his back.  In his steady reassuring tone he says, “I suggest Lieutenant Sulu and Mr Chekov do some recognisance of the farm and determine layout and strength and number of force Nero has there.”  He eyes Jim carefully making sure the Captain understands it’s more than a suggestion, it’s in the best interest of all involved if they want to escape this with minimal to no casualties. 

Kirk bites his lip.  He can’t argue with Spock’s assessment and win.  Every fiber of his being wants to get on his horse and storm the farm, spare McCoy any possible moment he can at the hands of Nero but those impulses are rooted in emotion.  He can’t be objective when it comes to saving someone he cares for from Nero so he has to defer to Spock’s flawless judgement.  “Agreed,” he confirms reluctantly.  “But do not engage Nero, he’s mine.”

Scotty stops tapping his lip in contemplation and lets his eyes widen in surprise in Kirk’s conformity.  He believes there are people in this world, like the Captain that draw strength from situations like this, who would laugh in the face of their captor and ask for more.  All their nights of sharing, sometimes meaningful, conversations over drinks, Scotty has gotten to know the doctor and while he believes in McCoy’s inner strength to endure he’s not sure Leonard’s the type of man to thrive from it.  The doctor may survive but he won’t be better for it.  “Are ya sure we should be waitin’?  They could kill the doctor.”

Jim lets his head drop down not wanting to be reminded of exactly what’s at stake.  Spock, ever perceptive, steps in to set aside everyone’s concerns without emotional entanglement.  “In all likelihood they need the doctor as a bargaining chip or for information.  Since no one has shown up at camp, it is logical to assume the good doctor has not supplied them with any information and therefore is still alive.  If it was merely a show of power, Nero would have killed the doctor in town and left the body for us to find.” 

If everyone were as logical as Spock, Jim has no doubt that would be true.  However this isn’t logic, its revenge, pure and simple.  “You’re applying logic to an emotional situation.  Nero’s not above hurting McCoy to hurt us.  He takes pleasure in drawing things out.  One stone, many birds.”

“Indeed,” concedes Spock.  “But he cannot make his statement if he cannot find us, thus, he must keep the doctor alive until he is sure we will find him.”

“Alive is a relative term, Spock,” mutters Jim.  There are worse things than death.  The list of things Nero could do to McCoy that qualify in that category is staggering. 

“We’ll leave right now,” offers Sulu, pulling Chekov out of his chair.  Retribution will be swift and complete but if they want to spare McCoy being a casualty they need to be prepared.  As much as he wants the Captain to declare the charge into war this second, he sees the wisdom in Spock’s suggestion.  The sooner they leave, the sooner they can return and begin making real plans to save their friend.

“I’ll help you get the horses ready,” offers Uhura.  She walks out of the tent a little too quickly.  Sitting and dwelling isn’t going to work for her, she needs something to do even if it’s as simple as throwing a saddle on a horse.

Jim sits silently as his people leave to accomplish their task.  He feels numb and can’t help but go over every decision he made since Pike was shot. 

“ _Are you sure kidnapping a local doctor is the wisest course of action?”_

_“It’s Pike’s only chance.  We have to take the risk.  It’ll be fine, Spock, don’t worry.”_

It’s anything but fine now, but Jim can’t make himself want to take back his decision.  Pike is alive and McCoy had been a good addition to their little gang, albeit a reluctant unwilling one.  This though, it should have been him, it always should be him and not the people around him to pay for his short comings.  If McCoy is anything but in perfect health, he’s going to rain down hell on earth and not stop until all Nero’s men are dispatched painfully from this life.  It will cost him his soul but perhaps that was the price tag all along.  He’s never been more prepared to pay than this moment.

“I think this calls for a drink,” says Scotty, getting up to grab a bottle and some glasses.  He pours three out and slides one to Jim and another to Spock.  It’s not exactly helpful but at least it’s _something_ to do.

Spock stares at it like the glass might actually bite and makes no move to pick it up as his companions do.  It’s one ritual he hasn’t been able to immerse himself in since joining this makeshift tribe.  There’s no measurable benefit, but the after effect makes arguments against consuming alcohol a logical stance, despite what Jim and Scotty claim.

“To saving the doctor,” toasts Scotty, before tossing back his glass.

Kirk presses the glass to his lips but stops as he notices Spock has made no move toward his glass.  “Spock?”

“I do not consume alcohol and if I were to engage in the activity, it would not be with Mr Scott’s homemade brew.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally,” scoffs Scotty.

“It’s a toast,” explains Jim.  “It won’t come to fruition if you don’t drink.”

“I also do not share your people’s assorted superstitions.”  Spock pauses a moment taking in Jim’s poorly concealed look of hurt.  Uhura’s words about being more sympathetic to people’s emotions even if he isn’t so inclined to express his ring in his ears.  “Perhaps tonight I will make an exception.”  He picks up the glass and consumes it in one gulp as he had watched Scotty do.  The burn is distinctive and ever present and he chokes slightly turning his nose up at the taste.  He can’t fathom his friend’s fondness for the drink but he thinks Uhura would be proud of him as he sees a small smile shape Jim’s face before he drinks his own glass.

 


	15. Chapter 14

McCoy comes back to consciousness with a gasp and what feels like an explosion within his back.  Every square inch of him hurts, even worse than before if that’s possible, but this is a new kind of pain, a burning that sears his flesh and sends shockwaves through his battered body.  It happens again, this time stealing a hoarse cry from his split lips and eliciting an amused chuckle from behind him.  He blinks his one working eye trying to get something into focus but he’s face down on a bed, his view of anything pretty much skewed.  The pain comes again this time with a horrific bang to accompany the pain and fire.

He tires to move, anything, an arm, a foot, hell enough muscles in his abdomen to squirm and wiggle away from whoever is hurting him, but nothing moves.  Besides being crippled by the pain, his arms and legs are firmly tied to the bed stretching them above his head and along to the foot of the bed.  It only ramps his panic up even more, his breath failing to fill desperate lungs while his heart pounds so hard it threatens to make him deaf.

“Gunpowder,” offers a voice from somewhere near his head.  He knows that voice, has become intimately familiar with it; Nero’s voice will follow him into hell and haunt him there.  As if to prove the man’s point another bang and wave of pain explodes across McCoy’s back.

Leonard catches a glimpse of Ayel leaning over him, smouldering cigarette in hand and a sadistic smile curling to the tips of his pointed ears.  He knows this isn’t as simple as Ayel pressing a lit cigarette into his back, he’s burned himself on things before and this is much, much worse.

“Another trick I learned, Doctor; a more interesting means of cauterizing a wound,” offers Nero sounding almost board.  “And if it happens to cause you discomfort, then it’s all the more effective.”

Ayel smudges another sprinkling of gunpowder over one of the many cuts along Leonard’s back and lowers the cigarette.  Knowing what’s happening and when does nothing to prepare the doctor for the pain.  He frantically tugs at his restraints as his muscles twitch and tense under the agony.  He can’t keep his screams quiet and he’s done trying.

He’s weak and wants nothing more than to pass out but the constant and unyielding igniting of the gunpowder jars him back to full consciousness every time.  A little voice tells him to hold on.  He’s not sure he remembers why anymore, doesn’t remember if he ever did.  Right, suffering; that’s why he held on after Joanna died because whatever awaits him in hell isn’t going to be enough for the crime of failing his little girl.  There was something else though another reason that requires him to endure and it has nothing to do with penance.

“Care to tell me where Kirk is hiding yet?” asks Nero.

Hope, that’s what he had been clinging to at the start.  Hope that rescue would come before he betrays a group of people he’s been forced to call friends.  He’s not sure he wants to be rescued anymore.  Rescue involves the people he’s trying to protect to be in the same room with Nero and now that he vividly knows what the man is going to do to them, he wants Kirk to stay the hell away.  Kirk has a lot of things coming his way but not this. None of them deserve this.  He musters every last ounce of defiance he can and spits, “I won’t tell you anything.”  He secretly hopes it’s enough to enrage Nero into killing him for his insolence.

“We could be friends, doctor.”

“Don’t need any friends.  Didn’t even want the ones I’ve got,” he forces out through clenched teeth.  Friends bring nothing but heartache and pain; this is just the most literal demonstration of that fact.

“You think they appreciate your efforts here?” asks Nero losing a little of his patients.

McCoy shakes his head minutely, ignoring the way the small movement makes his bones ache.  “Doesn’t matter what they think, matters what I think.”

Nero moves over to McCoy and leans menacingly over him.  His face so close the doctor can feel the warmth of his breath.  “Whether or not you tell me, you’ll still be Kirk’s downfall,” he whispers in Leonard’s ear like a dirty secret.  “This is more a question on how hard you want to make things for yourself.”

McCoy grits his teeth, and remembers this mother’s promise about his stubbornness being his undoing.  “Never been accused of doin’ things the easy way.”  He braces himself for whatever new pain Nero’s malicious smile promises but their conversation is interrupted by one of Nero’s men stumbling into the room panting for breath.

“Riders, sir.”

Nero turns towards the intruder.  “Kirk?”

The man shakes his head as Ayel pulls his gun out from its holster and starts towards the door.  “Scouts,” says the man.

Nero grabs Ayel’s arm before he gets to the door.  Ayel obediently stops, but doesn’t relax.  “Let them report back to Kirk.  We wouldn’t want to discourage future company.  In fact, why don’t we give them a good look at what they came for.  Ayel, take the doctor here to the barn.”

Ayel wastes no time in undoing McCoy’s restraints and yanking him off the bed.  Leonard wants to make things difficult, to put up a struggle but the second he’s anything close to vertical his knees buckle and he tumbles toward the ground.  He manages not to face plant by virtue of Ayel’s iron grip on his upper arm but he can’t coordinate his limbs to help or hinder the effort to move him.  The other man grabs him by the other arm once it’s apparent the only way he’s leaving the room is by being dragged. 

The sun is blinding as he’s dragged out of the house forcing him to squint.  He tries to catch a glimpse of whoever has Nero intent on putting a show, but all he can see is dirt and a few dilapidated buildings.  He prays Kirk isn’t stupid enough to be baited into whatever Nero has planned but he has a sinking feeling the prospect will only excite and entice the kid to play hero.

He catches sight of his guard’s gun and knows Ayel has his in his holster.  Nero may have been the picture of calm when faced with McCoy’s insolence, but Ayel seems a bit more of a hothead, prone to action before thought.  He takes as deep a breath as his broken body will allow and steels himself for what he’s about to do, drawing strength from conviction.  Digging his heels in, he wrenches his arm free from his guard’s hold and grabs the gun from his holster.

It takes both hands to hold the weapon and but still it weaves and shakes as he tries desperately to stay on his feet.  His fingers shake as he cocks the trigger and waits.  He can hear Ayel draw his gun and knows in a matter of seconds he’s going to save himself and Jim a world of pain.  McCoy’s going to be put out of his misery and as an added bonus, he’ll be removed from Nero’s equation to use him against Kirk’s gang. 

The breath is knocked out of Leonard before he even hits the ground.  The impact awakens every ache and pain his battered body has received forcing them to sing in harmony like a gospel choir.  It’s too much and all he can do is cry himself hoarse as he curls into a fetal position in a vain attempt to lessen his suffering. 

He can hear snippets of an argument going on around him but can’t latch on to enough to make heads or tails of it.  He wants to curse Ayel for being a lousy shot; the guy had a point blank opportunity to take him out and somehow he still managed to keep from killing the doctor instantly.  Maybe it’s just that old McCoy luck that transforms being a martyr into a lesson in abject misery.

It’s that thought that forces his mind to trace his pain to the source.  He can identify every knick, cut and bruise but nothing that screams bullet hole.  Letting his head lull to the side he catches a glimpse of Nero with his hands tangled in Ayel’s shirt collar as he lectures his man on why he shouldn’t try and shoot the doctor.

Try.  Even Leonard’s foggy mind can piece together what happened based on the players’ final resting places.  He’s not sure what makes him want to cry more, the fact that Nero pushed him out of the way, the fact that he’s alive or that he can’t even get himself killed when he tries.

He groans as Nero grabs a handful of hair and wrenches his head up to look the man in the eyes.  “I’m going to make sure you live long enough to see the look of defeat in Kirk’s eyes, Doctor.”

It’s a promise that makes McCoy sick to his stomach.  He’s tried so hard since Joanna to keep from getting close to anyone, the townspeople, Gaila, to protect himself from the hurt they would eventually inflict upon him by leaving, discovering his worthlessness like his ex-wife and daughter did.  Then came Kirk who stomped over all of his defences without regard to how hard Leonard worked to erect them and let his merry men swarm in and fill his life.  Now, worse than having people be able to hurt him, he’s going to be the one that hurts them, he’s going to be the thing that gets torn away leaving a gaping hole that can only be filled with self-doubt, booze and loneliness.  He’s a doctor; he’s not supposed to inflict that kind of pain, even on someone like Jim Kirk who he often fantasizes about causing harm to.

He hopes, as Ayel finishes dragging him into the gloomy barn that Kirk thinks better of whatever foolhardy reckless plan he’s no doubt concocted.  He desperately wants the whole gang to realize he’s not worth it.

* * *

 

“Are you sure about this?” asks Uhura.  She knows the Captain’s made up his mind, they’re almost past the point of no return anyways; sitting on horseback overlooking the farm just after the crack of dawn while the rest of the team gets in place, is pretty much a commitment if ever there was one.  Still she owes it to Jim to make sure.  There’s a lot riding on this and if there’s even a flicker of doubt that he can’t handle it, she’ll go in his place in a heartbeat.

Jim hears the words but is too enraptured in the ghosts of his past to acknowledge.  The place has seen the effects of time and neglect, but in every corner he looks at, all he can see is the sparkle of happiness his parents had sprinkled on his childhood before Nero brought the rain that washed it all away.  He can see the way the setting sun caught his mother’s eyes as she called them in for dinner and the warm smile of pride in his father’s eyes as he watched Jim finally lasso the fence post.  Nero took his future and now he’s trying to tarnish the past and that perhaps makes the cuts hurt all the more.

He spent his life cursing the man his father was, the unshakable right that coursed through the sheriff’s veins and forced him to turn down Nero’s offer.  They could have been happy if he’d just taken the deal.  He wonders if had he not been within earshot, the cause for his father’s exemplary example of just how a man should be, George Kirk might have seen the wisdom of accepting the offer.  Jim had cursed those ideals all the way to a jail cell just to prove he didn’t need them.  Pike had been right then, and his words ring true even now because the thought of doing the easy thing, the safe thing, of riding into the sunset to live a quiet happy life seems hollow.  He can’t fathom what it would take to leave McCoy in Nero’s hands.

“Get in position and wait for Spock’s signal,” he orders. He gives Uhura a few minutes to get in position before he begins his slow ride down to the farm.  It’s quiet and giving every appearance of abandonment but based on the show Sulu and Chekov watched yesterday, he knows Nero’s lying in wait to spring his theatrics.

He scans the area before sliding out of his saddle; there’s no one around but he knows they’re somewhere lying in wait, if not for him specifically then for his men.  He approaches the barn unchallenged and finds his stride falters at the door.  He knows Nero likes to put on a show, it’s the thing that’s convinced him Leonard’s still alive but he can’t help the small whisper of doubt that says he’s going to find a body on the other side.  

The door moans something awful as it slowly slides open allowing a streak of sunlight to split the darkness.  Leonard scrunches his one good eye closed against the burning before blinking a few times to acclimate to the light.  His heart plummets as he watches Jim walk in of his own accord and would slap some sense into the stupid kid if his hands weren’t tied behind his back.  “Get outta here, Jim,” he slurs.

Kirk uses everything he has not to gasp at the sight of his friend.  The black bruises, unending cuts and blood matted hair are enough to turn his stomach, never mind the noose that’s pulling tightly against Leonard’s neck; tight enough that he has to stand on the balls of his feet on the chair he’s perched on to maintain his airway.  “Bones,” he says soft and quiet unable to hide the guilt and despair assaulting him.

“So nice of you to join us, James.  I know the doctor has been dying for you to honor us with your presence.”  Nero steps out of the shadows behind McCoy, every bit the predator as he glares at the fly that’s wandered into his web.  There’s a terse silence before he asks, “Where’s Spock and the rest of the do-gooders?”

“This doesn’t involve them,” snaps Kirk, all hard edges and unrelenting.  He won’t rise to Nero’s taunts and he won’t let himself be distracted away from his goal.  “This is between you and me so you can let Doctor McCoy go.”

“Oh, I think he has everything to do with this.  People have to learn not to stand in the way of progress.  Throw your guns down and we might be able to talk about getting the doctor down.”

McCoy winces as his foot slips slightly allowing his weight to pull against the rope before he can recover.  He can’t help but think of Jim’s confession regarding his connection to the mad man who put the rope around his neck. _“He rode in with his gang, dragged him out in the street for the whole town to see and hung him.”_   Leonard faces his greatest fear every night when he closes his eyes and can empathises with how this scene must be playing merry hell on the kid’s nerves.  He flirts briefly with the idea of just taking a step off the chair and removing himself from Kirk’s plight but can’t bring himself to be yet another ghost that haunts Jim’s dreams that way.  “Don’t do it Jim, I’m not worth it.”

Kirk glares at McCoy like he’s lost his mind and slowly pulls his guns out of his holster.  They feel heavier than usual, like there’s more riding on each bullet than ever before.  He entertains the idea of drawing on Nero before dropping his weapons but the man is too close to McCoy.  The chance is too great that Leonard might get hit- or worse, Kirk’s aim is as true as always and Nero topples into Leonard, knocking him off the chair.

The sharp bang makes Jim flinch and his eyes dart from the gun in his hand to Nero.  The fine mist of smoke rolls off the man’s gun, which is aimed at the legs of the chair holding McCoy up.  The doctor has a look of terror on his face and his feet frantically try and restore balance to the chair now that one of the supporting joists has been shot out.  The wood wobbles without the support but the chair manages to stay together.  Kirk still hasn’t taken a breath but he lowers his gun as Nero moves his to shoot out one of the legs of the chair.

“That’s better.”  Nero smiles as Kirk stands back up, weaponless.  Opening his mouth to launch another volley of superiority, he’s silenced by an explosion that rattles the boards on the barn.

 

 


	16. Chapter 15

Spock keeps his eyes firmly set on Uhura’s intended position until she arrives.  Chekov and Sulu are ready and waiting in theirs and he knows without doubt that there’s a ripple of anticipation running through the gang.  They’re all well trained and professional even in these circumstances.  Spock thinks it might be the fleeting touch of relief that washes over him knowing it’s only Jim’s emotional instability in this scenario he needs to be overly concerned with. 

“Are you ready, Mr Scott?” he asks, turning to check on the engineer’s progress.

Scotty finishes securing the bundle in his arms before hopping off the edge of the wagon.  Despite the circumstances a small gleam always inhabits the corner of his eye when doing something dangerous.  “Aye, as ready as I’ll ever be.”  Scotty looks uncertain about the plan as a whole but they’ve done foolhardier things in the past; in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Very well, Mr Scott, light the fuse.”  The Scotsman follows his command before they both move behind the wagon and begin to push.  It requires minimal force to send the wagon with the bundles of dynamite rolling down the gentle decline leading to the farm.  As calculated, the wagon arrives in the center of the buildings just as the dynamite explodes raining down debris and shaking the ground.

Nero’s men, who had carefully maintained position, lying in wait for the appearance of Kirk’s gang, come crawling out of the woodwork to answer the attack.  They swarm the yard like ants looking wildly for their targets, fully exposed. Uhura, Chekov and Sulu open fire on them from their positions.  The guard’s attention fully focused on their comrades, Scotty and Spock move to their secondary positions to press their advantage.  If they can keep the focus of Nero’s force, it’ll give Jim time to deal with Nero and rescue the doctor.

Spock takes out six of his targets before ducking behind the outer wall of the house to reload.  As he dumps out the spent cartridges he senses a foreboding presence behind him.  He turns in time to see Ayel level his gun towards his head.  Spock rolls out of the way just as the bullet slams into the wooden corner post of the farmhouse, splinters raining down and embedding themselves into his skin.

“Spock!” shrieks Ayel, storming forward.  Revenge is a good motivator, and he won’t be deterred or denied his mission.  Blood for blood.

Spock’s on his feet, deflecting Ayel’s blow as the Romulan turns the corner.  Ayel delivers several more quick decisive blows that the Vulcan manages to counter with minimal injury.  Their methods of engaging in battle are similar and they are evenly matched reducing the conflict to victory decided by details.  “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” snarls Ayel.  His tribe may have viewed Spock’s actions as honor on the battlefield but Ayel knows better.  He has a brother to avenge.

A flicker of rage burns deep in Spock.  Locked in mortal combat with one of his greatest enemies, he wants nothing more than to unleash it but that is not the teachings of his people or his father.  His mother, though, always embraced her emotional side.  It’s his mother who died in the army attack which Nero helped orchestrate but it was Ayel, their Romulan guide that saw fit to slaughter his mother with both dishonor and cowardice.  However, victory is more important than feeding buried emotions and he pushes his feelings down to keep a cool and logical head in this engagement. Ayel has taken everything, he will not let the Romulan take his sense of self too.

Their deadly dance continues to move in circles, both equally matched and fighting not only for themselves but the people they lost.  It’s been a long time coming and there’s a certain satisfaction that comes with each blow executed. 

Ayel grabs a fistful of Spock’s shirt, using it as leverage to bash the Vulcan hard against a stack of crates pilled in the yard.  He feels the body in his grip slacken with the hit and pulls back to bash Spock’s head against the unyielding wood again.

Pain detonates in Spock’s head as he collides with the crate.  Stars explode in his vision as he’s momentarily stunned.  Before he can put up a resistance, Ayel is slamming him against the crates again, this time his knees buckle and he slumps to the ground.  Everything is spinning and his coordination is shot, but he can see Ayel pulling a savage knife from his belt and bracing his hand against Spock’s shoulder to help drive the blade home.  He fleetingly thinks about his mother and how her death will go un-avenged; and then of Uhura and all they’ll fail to do together before the crack of gunfire breaks his concentration.

He raises an eyebrow in curiosity as blood flows over Ayel’s lip, eyes wide and vacant before he tumbles to the ground in a boneless heap.  With Ayel out of the way, he gets his first clear look at Uhura standing there, a faint wisp of smoke rising from the gun levelled at the spot that Ayel had, until recently, occupied.

“Are you alright?” she asks, concern and relief cracking through her calm demeanour like fireworks in the night sky.

Spock takes stock of himself; besides being a little dazed there is nothing of consequence to report.  He’ll blame the cracks to the head for his slower comprehension of the situation, but finally it registers that Ayel is dead.  “What did you do?” he demands.

“He was going to kill you,” Uhrua responds, her fear being replaced with anger at Spock’s slightly accusatory tone.

His voice is cold as he mentally puts a distance between himself and his would be savor.  “There is no honor in shooting someone in the back, Nyota.”

She lets out a sharp breath.  Spock’s black and white view can be so infuriating sometimes.  “He was going to kill you Spock,” she spits, “while you were unarmed.  Where’s the honor in that?”  She’s not going to justify herself to him when her motivations should be obvious.

Spock picks himself up from the ground, dusting himself off.  “Just because one does not adhere to our beliefs does not mean one should forgo their belief to be on their level.”

“I’m not going to apologise for saving your life!  But later you should give some thought to how your nobility affects other people, how it affects me.”

He stares at her for a moment; it’s hard to miss that while he’s unhappy with this turn of events Uhura is pissed at him.  He will have to devote some time to figuring out exactly what faux pas he has committed against her later. “Nyota,” he starts, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.

She takes a step back.  “Go find Kirk and make sure he and the doctor are alright.  The boys and I will finish up here.”  She turns on her heels and walks back into the fray leaving no room to argue with her orders.

* * *

 

Nero’s eyes stray to the open barn door in surprise.  The moment of distraction is enough for Kirk to drive into a roll, grabbing one of his discarded guns and bringing it up to bear on Nero.  He has the space between heartbeats to pull the trigger before Nero can get his shot off.  In the wake of the explosion the discharge of the gun seems small but fills the barn nonetheless. 

Nero cries out in pain as the bullet lodges itself into his shoulder causing him to stagger back a step.  It’s enough to throw his shot off slightly, though he manages to squeeze the trigger.

“No!” is all Jim manages to get out, watching in horror as Nero’s shot takes out one of the chair legs.  The chair gives out under the doctor’s weight, lying broken on the ground.

The world painfully slows, every second lasting a terror filled eternity.  McCoy sees Nero flinch out of the corner of his eye and feels the impact of the bullet against the wooden chair.  His stomach drops as he watches Jim’s face contort into horror mere seconds before there is nothing below his feet.  Panic pours through every nerve ending as his drop to the ground comes up short, pain exploding in his neck.  He tries to take a breath in shock but there’s nothing.  His feet kick out frantically in search of purchase, failing to find anything to take his weight.  Blood begins to trickle down his wrists as they rub furiously against the restraints desperate for any weakness to exploit.  Leonard’s vision is beginning to tunnel and he knows his seconds are numbered.

The world falls out from under Kirk the way the chair collapses under McCoy.  They’re both unable to breath but Jim clamps down on his fear, caging it with relief that the rope didn’t outright snap the doctor’s neck.  Nero staggers to the side, hand clutching his shoulder as Jim runs to Leonard’s side.  He wraps his arms around the doctor’s waist and lifts.  It’s awkward but he relives some of the pressure from Leonard’s neck.

The doctor coughs and takes in a few large shuttering breaths.  “Jim?” he wheezes.

“I got you,” answers Kirk frantically.  His eyes search for anything within reach to help but anything to put under McCoy is too far away.  The knife tucked in his boot is burning for attention.  If he can grab it, he can cut the noose but McCoy’s not light and his grip is precarious at best.  “Hang on,” he stutters, doing his best to shift Leonard onto his shoulder.  He can imagine the doctor’s scowl and retort about being able to do nothing else as he painfully tries to ignore the choking and gagging sounds his friend makes as the rope pulls and loosens while Jim shifts them around.

There’s a war going on outside of the barn but all Jim can hear is the pounding of his heart and McCoy’s desperate breaths.  He stretches his arm and fingers excruciatingly past their limits, finger tips brushing the hilt of his knife.  He claws urgently at it to bring the needed tool into his grasp.  Sweat is running into his eyes and a desperate fire is consuming his muscles but he can’t stop, can’t relieve himself of McCoy’s weight or stop trying to pull the knife free.  His fingernail catches and pulls the blade sliding it up just a fraction, just enough to get a finger tip beneath it.  One fingertip leads to two, which leads to a finger wrapping around it and finally, _finally_ , being able to get a solid useful grip.

Jim lifts the knife up and locks eyes with McCoy.  It’s the same desperate look he saw when the doctor was falling off the train.  “I’m going to get you down,” he promises with more sincerity and conviction than he has anything else in this world.  He will not fail at this.

Leonard swallows painfully, his throat tight, bruised and already swelling; even when the rope is finally pulled from around his neck breathing will be difficult.  He nods minutely at Jim’s promise and knows if anyone is going to get him out of this, it’s the infuriating loyal reckless outlaw that saw fit to kidnap him months ago.  It’s probably his imagination or some combination of fear and lack of oxygen but he feels the pressure around his neck begin to lessen as Jim begins to furiously saw at the thick rope.  Once again he’s thankful for the horseshoe Kirk saw fit to store up his ass.

McCoy blinks to dispel the shadows lurking at the edge of his vision and realizes one of the shadows is much worse than death swooping in to take his soul; it’s Nero, hell-bent on stealing Kirk’s.  “...’im, look ou...” he forces past his aching throat.  The warning isn’t soon enough and the world sways violently as Nero slams into the Captain, sending him flying and leaving Leonard floundering at the end of his rope once again. 

Jim hits the ground hard, rattling every bone in his body.  Nero and he tumble across the ground, digging in elbows and knees to both injure one another and bring their momentum to a halt.  He grabs any part of Nero’s jacket he can and uses the leverage to put more power in every punch he delivers.  Nero counters and throws just as many punches as Kirk but Jim takes them all, refuses to let go because all he can see in his peripheral vision is McCoy’s weakening struggle.

Kirk throws himself off of his enemy, determined to make his way back to the hanging man and severing the rope holding him up but a hand around his foot pulls him back to the ground.  He twists sharply using his free foot to kick at the hand restraining him.  Precious moments are ticking away and he needs to break the rope strangling his friend.

Nero pulls himself across the ground, using Kirk as a foot hold.  In rapid succession he delivers several brutal punches focusing on the kid’s face until he starts to see a slight dazed look in the all too blue eyes.

Kirk’s hand tightens around the handle of Nero’s gun and pries it from the holster.  With a quick and decisive elbow to the side of Nero’s head, Jim rolls onto this stomach and level’s the gun at his target.  He pulls the trigger, heart in his throat as he watches to see if fate will be on his side.

The blackness is settling over everything like tide coming and washing away everything carved into the sand, everything that was Leonard McCoy.  There’s the crack of gunpowder igniting and the last fleeting thought Leonard has is he hopes Kirk is alright, because he won’t be around anymore to patch him up.

Jim breathes a sigh of relief as he watches McCoy’s body crumple to the ground, the bullet having pierced through the stands of rope holding him up.  He can breathe now that he knows the doctor has the same option. 

The relief is short lived as pain explodes through his back.  Nero bashes his elbow down on Kirk’s back again, eyes filled with hell fire as he sees the doctor sprawled on the ground.  His blood boils, spittle flying from his lips as he curses Kirk’s name.  With inhuman strength he tosses the Captain onto his back, his hands finding their way around Kirk’s neck.  With satisfaction he begins to squeeze, reveling in the feel of skin molding to his tight unrelenting grip.

Kirk’s eyes bulge as he struggles to draw in breath.  His left hand claws viciously at Nero’s hands trying in vain to loosen his grip. 

Nero’s sadistic smile widens as he leans closer.  “You’re pathetic like your father,” he snarls.  His moment of satisfaction is short lived as a smile plays at Kirk’s lips.  He cocks his head to the side in assessment.  A garbled sound comes from Kirk’s lips and he loosens his grip marginally for Jim to voice his pitiful response.

“I got your gun,” he reminds Nero.  He spares his enemy a moment to glance down and realize the before mentioned weapon is not only still firmly in Jim’s grasp but now pointed directly at Nero’s chest.  He pulls the trigger, eyes locked on Nero engraving every second of the man’s defeat into his memory.   The force of the impact knocked Nero over, sprawling on the ground clutching at his chest as blood, once filled with hatred and greed abandons him.  Jim wastes no time in rushing over and straddling the incarnation of his nightmares to rain down a fury of punches.  “For my father, you son of a bitch!”


	17. Chapter 16

Spock’s initial instinct when walking into the barn is to aid in Jim’s struggle, but the limp and unmoving form of Doctor McCoy pulls his eyes and attention.  Kirk seems to have the advantage, making the logical choice to see to the object of their rescue attempt.  He kneels down next to McCoy and with gentle hands, mindful of the multitude of visible and unending injuries, turns the doctor over.  The man’s eyes are closed, slacked features sending concern through the Vulcan.  His fingers efficiently loosen the noose before he slips the confining rope from around Leonard’s neck.  Pressing his ear against the injured man’s chest he listens for any sign that they have not failed in their mission.

There’s a slight rattling sound in McCoy’s chest and Spock finds he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to report the doctor’s demise to the rest of the gang, especially the Captain.  He starts by gently tapping the side of McCoy’s battered face to bring him back to consciousness.  The tapping increases in strength as he fails to elicit a response.  It’s akin to cruelty, but necessary, when he outright slaps the doctor, the man’s head lolling to the side from the force.  He spares a second to feel bad about it, the doctor has clearly been through hell, adding to that burden is unkind.  It does the trick though, Leonard’s brow wrinkles as his lips begin to move in a repetitive motion.  Spock credits his sensitive ears to being able to make out the quiet and breathy mantra of Kirk’s name.  “You are required to open your eyes, Doctor,” states Spock.

The words penetrate the thick fog and it feels like climbing up and endless mineshaft to try and reach the light.  It’s hard work to try and suck in even a fraction of the air his starved lungs are demanding and every inch of him protests the effort but he tries.  He cracks his eyes open and comes face to face with the devil himself.  “’m in hell,” he rasps, because that has to be why he’s in agony and starring into the oddly concern eyes of the devil.

“I believe you are misinformed, Doctor.  You are in fact currently lying on the ground of the barn located on the old Kirk homestead,” corrects Spock, eyebrow still raised.

It’s worse than Satan correcting him, it’s Spock.  “Hobgoblin,” accuses McCoy, letting his eyes flutter shut.  It requires too much effort to keep them open and he’s not sure he has any fight left.  He’s ready to go into that gentle night when a thought resonates through him like an electric pulse.  Someone was shot, probably Kirk.  His eyes snap back open but all he can see is the dusty blue of Spock’s shirt.  Speaking is agony but he needs to know, “Where’s Jim?”

Spock turns his head and McCoy catches his first glimpse of a golden mop of hair in the distance.  He grits his teeth as Spock pulls the doctor to his chest giving him an un-obscured view of the Captain mindlessly punching in Nero’s face.  There’s so much blood that Kirk must have the bones reduced to pulp by now, never mind the lake sized puddle of blood underneath Nero’s body.  The blank look in Jim’s eyes is haunting, makes Leonard’s blood run cold.  “Jim,” he tries.  It’s too hoarse and quiet to carry.  Even though he knows it’s going to hurt like hell, McCoy still tries, “Jim!”

Something clicks in Kirk and his fist stops mid swing.  His breath catches as he sees the blood painting his fist.  He sits there chest heaving and heart pounding.  Nero’s dead and while he feels a sense of peace at that, the hollow feeling that has followed him his whole life isn’t replaced with the warmth of triumphant like he thought it would.  There is no light descending from on high and no choir of angels to sing praise at the monsters death, just the knowledge that he’ll never hurt anyone ever again.  It’s not his father alive and well, but it will have to be enough.

“He’s dead, Jim,” offers McCoy, soft and full of compassion.  He understands how important it is to vanquish the thing or person that stole his loved ones but knows it still doesn’t fill the hole that has been carved onto your soul.

Kirk’s gaze snaps towards his friends, Spock looking at him impassively, and McCoy lying broken and beaten in Spock’s arms.  “Bones.”  He scrambles off Nero’s body and takes position beside Spock.  Now there’s time to catalogue every cut, every bruise and Jim feels queasy at what McCoy’s endured on their behalf.  “Everything else under control,” he asks Spock.

“We were successful in eliminating all of Nero’s accomplices.”

Kirk looks at Spock for any sign that the burden of Ayel has lessened.  As usual he can’t get a read off the Vulcan.  “ _All_ of them?”

Spock’s lips go tight.  “Indeed.”

McCoy shifts uncomfortably, digging his shoulder into Spock.  “Think we can...” he starts, tipping his head to his arms fastened behind his back as the chains around his wrist rattle slightly.

“Yes.”  Jim looks around the barn for anything to try and pry the chains apart.

McCoy tips his head to the body lying across the barn.  “He should have the key.” 

Kirk scrambles to his feet and rushes over to rifle through Nero’s pockets.  The vacant haunted look that had possessed him earlier is replaced with his usual shit eating grin and mischievous sparkle as he holds the key up triumphantly.  Spock helps maneuver the doctor so the Captain can get better access to the manacles.  The cuffs slip off easily after that but Jim whispers, “Oh, Bones,” at the horribly abraded skin they had been hiding.

Leonard’s relief is short lived, his muscles protesting the new position of his arms.  A shudder runs through him and he swears Spock holds him just a little tighter after it.  He groans as feeling returns to his hands.  “Let’s get outta here,” grumbles McCoy grimacing as he tries to sit up on his own.  He needs to get away; the barn, the dead body, how close to death he actually came today, it’s all too much.  Spock moves to pick McCoy up like a bride being carried over the threshold of her new home but he shakes the Vulcan off.  He’ll walk out of here even if it kills him, which with the way he’s feeling, it probably will.  It’s more than a matter of pride, it’s proof that the miserable Romulan didn’t break him completely, that after all this time and everything that’s happened, he still has the ability to pull himself together.

“We’ll get you back to camp and Spock can fix you up,” offers Jim, leading the charge to get Leonard to his feet.  He pulls one of the doctor’s arms over his shoulder as Spock takes Leonard’s other side.  McCoy looks poignantly at Spock making sure he has the man’s attention.  “You’re not practicing your voodoo on me.”

“We shall see, Doctor,” returns Spock without the smugness Leonard would have thrown at him if he were in the Vulcan’s shoes.  They all know he’s losing his battle to stay conscious and after that McCoy won’t be in a position to stop anyone from doing anything, helpful or voodoo or not.

It’s slow going, McCoy barely managing the slow shuffle the three of them are locked in, but eventually the darkness of the barn is replaced with harsh light of day and the aftermath of Kirk’s assault on the farm.  Leonard can’t bring himself to feel anything about the dead bodies strewn around the ground except relief that none of them are his friends.  They’re all alright, standing around in anticipation of the doctor’s rescue.  “Y’all been busy,” he murmurs as they get closer to the wagon Nero had dragged him behind on their journey here. 

Scotty’s head pokes up over the front of the wagon as he finishes tying the horse to the cart.  “Aye.  It’s good to see ya, Doctor McCoy.” 

Uhura places a gentle hand on McCoy’s shoulder careful to not cause him anymore pain in her bid for comfort.  “It’s good to see you alive, Leonard.”

Sulu and Chekov nod in agreement with their comrades’ sentiment, silent sentinels still standing guard even though the threat has been taken care of.

Spock shifts McCoy’s weight entirely to Kirk as he helps Uhura lay down whatever blanket Chekov had managed to liberate from the house in the back of the wagon.  It’s not much but they’ll give McCoy any bit of comfort they possibly can.  The doctor doesn’t protest this time as Jim and Spock lift him into the back of the wagon and he gratefully accepts Uhura’s help as she tips his head up to offer him a few sips of water.  “You can sleep now, Doctor, we’ve got you,” she whispers.  A good idea being a good idea, McCoy let’s himself drift off.

* * *

 

Jim loses himself in the repetitive task of gently dabbing the wash cloth against the doctor’s torn skin.  He and Spock have found a steady rhythm in which he cleans the wounds and Spock assesses and bandages as needed.  Leonard hasn’t stirred at all in the last ten hours, setting Kirk on edge despite Spock’s assurances that it is to be expected.  There’s always the danger of complications, they’re what landed McCoy in this mess to begin with; the complication of knowing Kirk.  He wants to take comfort in the fact that today didn’t turn out like twenty years ago, but it’s hard to be relieved that something still exists when it’s lying in ruins.  The almost black bruise running around Leonard’s neck constantly mocks his attempts to patch the doctor up.  It’s like a black snake wiggling and tightening every time Jim’s eyes start to blur.

There’s a road map carved into McCoy’s skin, sharp knife cuts for trails, red rivers of blood and bruises for mountains.  It’s the road to hell laid out before him and it’s created by the simple act of meeting his acquaintance.  On Jim’s darkest days he lays the blame for his father’s death at his own feet, a man dying to uphold the values he wanted Jim to embrace.  He definitely brought his mother’s heartache; the spitting image of the husband she lost, tethered to a child she couldn’t walk away from to start anew. His shortcomings helped bring about the death of Spock’s people and Spock’s place with the few survivors.  The rest of the gang, is held together by his own course, preventing them from moving on and finding their own place in the world, one that doesn’t involve being on the wrong side of the law.  Then there’s Pike, who gave up a distinguished military career to bail him out and in return lost everything, including the ability to walk.

Pike had once accused Kirk of being the Pied Piper of strays.  His charisma often attracting loyalty from others who find themselves on the outs with society, those searching for a place to belong; it brought the gang together and keeps their network of contacts through these parts loyal.  Now he sees that it’s true in all the worst ways; he’s leading the gang to the river to be drowned. 

“The only one responsible for this is Nero,” states Spock looking intently at the Captain as though he can read his mind through touch alone.

Jim shakes his head, disengaging from his wandering thoughts at Spock’s voice.  He wants to argue that Spock is just being kind but knows it’s not an argument he’ll win.  The Vulcan isn’t as in touch with guilt as the rest of them.  He’s not sure whether to be envious of that or not. 

Kirk lets his gaze wander back to the doctor’s slack features.  “Where do we go from here, Spock?”  He doesn’t know how to make things right for the doctor, which is only the first in a long line of problems.  The weight of Nero has been lifted but replaced with the burden of an uncertain and directionless future and it’s not only his life in his hands.

“We will do as we always do.”  Spock turns his attention back to wrapping McCoy’s swollen wrist.  “We will take one day at a time, correcting injustices as we discover them.”  McCoy’s road to recover is going to be weeks in the making, decisions about what to do after that don’t need to be made for awhile.

Jim lets out an amused huff.  “That simple, huh?  Just keep taking on the world?”

“It does have its benefits.  And we seem to find a satisfactory conclusion events.”

His smile wobbles.  “You call this a satisfactory conclusion?” demands Jim, his voice rising slightly but not enough to disturb Leonard.  Spock always seems to use logic to create an acceptable margarine of loss that Jim thinks might be away to protect himself from feeling it.  “I think McCoy might disagree with that.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow before putting down the roll of gauze to give Jim his full attention again.  “The doctor’s condition is regrettable but I believe he will not be disappointed with being alive.  Nero is dead and as such unable to cause harm to anyone else.  As a doctor I believe he would be in favor of that conclusion if not the method behind it.  You are also forgetting that the doctor did not divulge our whereabouts to Nero despite ensuring his wrath.”

“Are you saying this is his fault?”  Kirk’s getting defensive.  Spock’s not a threat to the doctor but Jim still feels like he needs to protect McCoy.  It’s clear he’s in no condition to do it himself at the moment.  And it’s the least he can do since he failed to do it when it really counted.

“Not at all.  I am simply suggesting that there was a way to avoid this outcome and yet the doctor chose danger over safety, there for it is logical to assume he agrees with our objective.”

Jim rolls his eyes.  “Let’s hear it for loyalty.”

“It is an admirable quality, especially coming from someone as unexpected as the doctor.  It seems it is shared with the rest of the company we keep.”  Spock picks up the roll of gauze to continue his work.  His analytical mind is already calculating the various remedies taught by his people to speed the doctor’s recovery and counteract the fever he can feel starting to burn McCoy’s skin.

Kirk forces himself to relax.  Picking fights with his friends isn’t going to accomplish anything or burn off the energy that he desperately needs to expel. “Where has everyone gotten to?”  It’s been far too quiet around camp for the last hour.

“Uhura said their concern for the doctor required them to do something, so they are heading to town where it’s my understanding Mr Scott and Sulu intend to correct the damage Nero caused to the doctor’s office, while Chekov and Uhura will gather some of his personal effects to make him more comfortable while he recuperates.”

It shouldn’t surprise Jim but the gesture and thoughtfulness throws him for a moment.  Trust Scotty and Uhura to lead the charge of picking up the details he’s forgotten about.  Sulu and Chekov would have been chomping at the bit to do something for McCoy and he’s glad they’ll have something to channel their energies towards.  He thinks things might just be alright after they clear this last hurdle.

* * *

 

It’s just after dusk as they ride into town; fewer eyes, at least sober ones, to catch them.  With any luck they can have McCoy’s office straightened out, all traces of Nero gone, before morning.  They head around back and Scotty and Sulu tie the horses out of sight while Chekov and Uhura open the back door to Leonard’s home.  It’s dark, only enough light to make out the shape of furniture in their path and Chekov begins to search the kitchen for a candle or lantern.  Once Uhura crosses the threshold to the office part of the building, the distinctive click of a gun cocking breaks the silence and Uhura freezes.

The hiss of a match precedes the gentle light of flame which grows brighter as it finds the fuel of the lantern sitting on the office table.  A woman with red curls dressed in satin green glares at Uhura, gun leveled, daring her to take one more step into the room.  There’s an edge of danger despite her delicate features that Uhura can appreciate and she raises her hands to accentuate her lack of intent to harm.

“What did you do with Leonard?” demands the woman.  “If you’ve hurt him...”

Scotty comes up the back steps almost tripping over Uhura.  “Gaila, lass, is that you?” he asks sliding into the tense situation.

“Scotty?”  Gaila’s eyes wander over to the Scotsman who’s sauntered in behind Uhura.

“Aye, lassie.  What are you doin’ with that bloody thing.”  The engineer gently grabs the barrel of the gun and pulls it from her hands.  There’s a collective sigh of relief as the gun clunks against the table.

Gaila’s bottom lip begins to tremble. “Something horrible has happened to Leonard.”  Scotty wraps a reassuring arm around Gaila.  “I came to see why he hadn’t been to the saloon in a few days and he was gone and the place ransacked.  I’ve been looking for a week but no one knows what happened to him.”

“Doctor McCoy...” starts Scotty hesitantly.

“...Is helping a friend of ours,” interrupts Uhura.  Gaila looks up hopefully at the possibility but can’t quite dispel her reservation of skepticism.

“Yeah, it’s a few days ride from here and he’s not well so the doctor decided to stay until he’s sure he’s on the mend,” adds Sulu continuing the lie; the truth won’t ease the situation. 

“We heard someone broke into his office and wanted to clean it up before he came home,” continues Chekov.

“See, there’s nothing to worry about.  The doctor will be back in no time at all,” assures Scotty.  There’s no need to burden Gaila with the truth not to mention the complications the truth will bring.  It’s safer for her, McCoy and them if the story is nothing like the truth.

Skepticism taints Gaila’s voice even if her eyes are hopeful.  “Are you sure?”  They all nod, hoping their concern doesn’t give them away.  “I’d like to help then.  The Doc’s always been kind to me and my girls and he doesn’t need to deal with something awful like this.”  Gaila’s up on her feet and fetching the broom from the kitchen before anyone can process just what happened.

 


	18. Chapter 17

He can’t breathe.  He tries desperately to suck in air but his lungs won’t cooperate.  Panic is setting in making is hands clumsy as they paw at his neck trying to find what is blocking precious oxygen from replenishing his lungs. 

Leonard’s eyes snap open and his body jerks as it gulps in breath.  The motion sends shockwaves or pure agony through him and he gasps, his eyes darting around in panic.  He’s lying down on something softer than the ground but the muted glow of a lantern makes it difficult to make out his surroundings.  He has a moment of dread that he’s still stuck in that cellar awaiting whatever new torture Nero can dish out.  That moment forms an unmovable ball of ice in his gut as he catches the shadow of someone with pointed ears leaning over him.

He wants to run, to flee but his traitorous body has given up on him.  He flails clumsily and ineffectively, the shadow making a shushing sound at his feeble attempts to push them away.  A firm hand worms its way under his sweat soaked head lifting it slightly off the pillow and closer to a cup with steam rolling off of it.  “No,” he mumbles, shaking his head slightly in protest.  His voice is so weak and hoarse he can’t believe it belongs to him.  He can’t fight this person off but he has to try something to dissuade their intentions.  “Please... don’t.”

“Do not worry,” offers the shadow and McCoy wants to take comfort in it but the past few days have placed him firmly in the rabid jaws of fear.  He loses his battle of protest against being forced to drink.  He’s too hot already; he doesn’t need to choke down some mysterious liquid that tastes like death to add to his discomfort.  Why can’t they just let him die?

A warm tingling feeling washes over him releasing his tension but makes his arms and legs feel like they’re attached to lead weights.  “Wha...didya... do?” he slurs, losing his ability to coordinate his tongue.  His eyelids are growing heavy but he fights as long as he can; he needs to protect himself from whoever is sitting next to him.  In the end it’s futile, he can’t fight the darkness.  It might be nice to slip back into that dream where Kirk and company rescued him though.

“Sleep well, Doctor McCoy.”

* * *

 

McCoy’s tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth as he tries to work out the odd taste.  He can feel the frown on his face but not much else and that feeling is frightening.  He can’t seem to convince himself to panic though.  There’s a small chuckle off to the side and he begrudgingly opens his eyes to find the source.  The world is bright and white but the edges seem to wobble and run like paint in the rain.  No amount of blinking fixes his vision and the fluidity of the world makes his stomach roll.

“You frown even in your sleep, did you know that?”

McCoy let’s his head lull to the side, a sleepy smile appearing on his face as he sees who’s sitting beside him.  He likes this dream, the one where Kirk rescued him from Nero’s clutches.  “Jim,” he murmurs happily.  Whoever thought he would actually be happy to see the kid, even if it is just wishful thinking.

“According to Spock, you also make a horrible patient,” continues Kirk like he expected the conversation to be one sided.

Leonard’s eyes have just about drifted shut when the implication of the statement slams home.  Patient to the hobgoblin?  He has a vague recollection of a pointed eared shadow offering comfort before dumping something vile down his throat.  His eyes snap back open in alarm.  “Good god, what did he do to me?” he demands.

He looks pleadingly at Jim who’s holding up his hand in a Vulcan salute.  “How many fingers do you see?”  He’s been on the end of Spock’s ministrations before and knows that while they have many benefits, the morning after rivals a good night of drinking.  It’ll do in a pinch though, when more modern medicine methods are not available.

“That isn’t damn funny,” snarls the doctor, his seriousness bordering on rigidness.

“No,” agrees the Captain, “but you’ll get used to the ears.”  To emphasize his point he flicks his own ear before pointing towards Leonard’s. 

McCoy’s heart wants to pound out of his chest.  If that pointy eared bastard has mutilated his ears to make him look like one of them, he’ll kill him.  His hand shoots to his own ears in search of points but finds none.  He breathes a sigh of relief before shooting an annoyed glare at Kirk.  The kid can’t even hide his wicked grin.   “I hate you.”

“That’s not very nice,” chastises Kirk, getting up and walking towards the cupboards. 

“I really hate you,” reaffirms McCoy, wiggling to get more comfortable.  All things considering, and Vulcan voodoo notwithstanding, he feels better than the least time he can clearly recall.  His hands roam over his body taking inventory of the damage and the surprising amount of healing that’s taken place.  “How long...”

“This is the first time in about two weeks that you’ve really been awake,” answers Jim, handing the doctor two vials of medicine before sitting back down.  McCoy turns them over to read the contents; one’s an antibiotic and the other an analgesic.  It makes him glad for Kirk’s larceny and his foresight to keep the camp well stocked.  “You had us worried.”

“Sorry,” he offers sheepishly, racking his brain for any solid memory since the barn.

Jim shrugs.  “I’m the one who should apologise.  None of this would have happened if I hadn’t walked into your life.”

McCoy looks at Jim, really looks.  The kid looks far younger than his life experience would suggest and desperate enough that he’d cut out his own heart and place it on a sacrificial alter if it would keep the demons at bay.  Leonard can remember that desperation well, the moment you can see where your destiny took a drunken step off the beaten path and got you lost in a forest you didn’t even know was there, letting the wolves find their way to devour everything and everyone you care about. “You can take credit for a lot of things Jim, but you can’t take credit for all the crap in my life and if it wasn’t this it would have been something else.  Besides you got the bastard so he can’t hurt anyone else, that makes it worth it.”  Sure their initial meeting didn’t start on the best foot.  McCoy had foolishly thought should he ever find himself the victim of kidnapping, he wouldn’t continue to be pen pals with his captors but then again his life hasn’t turned out the way he wanted anyways; damn his bleeding heart for feeling empathetic for anyone and anything and their noble causes.

Jim purses his lips before asking, “It does?”  He always thought it would but he also believed it would be earned with his blood, sweat and tears alone.

McCoy winces as he buries himself further into his pillow.  “In a couple of days it will.  When the room stops spinning and the ache dies down.”

Jim wants to believe that but time has a way of making things clearer.  What will McCoy see when the picture isn’t stained red anymore?  What will they all see?  Will the cold light of day reveal something even worse that the shadows had been hiding?  Kirk reaches down and pulls something out from under the bed.  “Well you’re going to need this, especially if you don’t want Spock plying you with anymore Vulcan remedies.”  He places the black bag gently in McCoy’s lap.

Leonard looks at the medical bag with an expert’s eye.  It’s crafted with quality and he isn’t surprised that the medical tools tucked within are top of the line like the bag itself.  It brings a tear to his eye.  Nero had taken his last medical bag, the one his father had given him when he finished medical school, one that had helped him save many lives over the years but in the end had been used against him.  Jim’s not only had the forethought to obtain a new one for him but the generosity as well.    “Where did you get this?”

“Special order from New York.  I even paid for it and everything.  I originally got it as a thank you for saving my life but since you lost yours, it seems even more important now.”  Kirk beams with pride as McCoy takes out each of the instruments and looks them over, caressing them lovingly.  It’s nice to see that his hands have procured something for good that’s not tainted with blood and violence.

“Thanks, Jim.  I love it.”  He means it, from the bottom of his heart.

“Well you should get something to take back to town when you head home.”  Something that’s not physical and emotional scars he thinks.

McCoy chews on his lip for a moment.  He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.  Even in the wake of the destruction of his marriage and death of his daughter he had a very clear vision of the self imposed exile he was seeking out.  He had accepted it and embraced it before some foolhardy outlaw shanghaied his life and forced it to take a detour. 

He’s seen the other side of the chasm that separates good and evil and found he has more in common with the supposed bad guys than the good.  He hadn’t given much thought to going back to his life; he was pretty sure he wasn’t getting out of that barn and so it wouldn’t matter. McCoy’s never going to have his old life back, it’s a ghost he can’t catch and he’s not sure he’d want it if he could go back; he’s not that person anymore.  He’s spent the entire time he was with Kirk wanting to leave and get away from the annoying trouble maker and now this camp feels more like home and these people more like family than anything he had before.  They risked their lives to save his, didn’t give up when things got tough; he can’t even say that about his ex-wife.  He’s sure he’ll come to regret it; imagines that moment will come within the next few hours- but he knows what he wants to do.  “Naw, I figured I’d stick around here.  You all would never survive without me.”

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

The stench of death hangs in the air, the bodies lying where they fell amongst the debris of what used to be a picturesque homestead.  The Sheriff takes his hat off and bows his head in a silent prayer for the blood spilled.  It’s another example of frontier violence that plagues the outlying homes.  While Federation City isn’t a pinnacle of safety, bloody massacres like this don’t happen often. 

The hairs stand on the back of his neck as a foreboding presence stops behind him.  He turns to find one of his deputies escorting a tall man dressed in a well tailored black suit walking with purpose and an assessing eye.  “Sheriff,” greets the deputy.

“Any leads on who did this?” demands the man before the deputy can finish his sentence.  His voice is clipped and authoritative leaving no room for pleasantries.

The Sheriff scowls, he’s seen the type before, hired guns or government agents that sweep in on assignment believing they are better than the people who have chosen to build their lives in the ‘uncivilized’ west.  The harshness of the frontier confuses them and the Sheriff is glad they don’t stay long as a result.  There are no rules out here and well put together men like the one standing before him fail to embrace the savage nature of the west, trying to apply their civilized standards to situations they can’t possibly fit.

“Savages probably got restless.  There’s a wagon trail to the north, probably a raiding party,” offers the Sheriff.  It’s just another day.  Until the army finishes eradicating the natives, there will be more days like this. 

“And did you do any investigating before you came to that conclusion?” asks the man.  His bland even tone is intimidating without being forceful.  He glares at the Sheriff like a child pulling apart a bug.

He doesn’t need someone telling him how to do his job, especially some city boy who doesn’t even have any dirt on his boots.  “It’s a common problem in these parts.  Most of the land is still unclaimed and lawless.  This is the old Kirk homestead; it’s been abandoned for almost twenty years so it’s not like we come to check on the place.  If Mr Nero was staying here, it would make him an easy target for any roaming tribe to take advantage of.”

“Yes and do these savages often have medical degrees?” the man asks, his irritation just simmering below the surface.

“Excuse me?” spits the Sheriff, puffing himself up just a little.

“Your deputy said your doctor is missing.”

“Yeah, looks like someone ransacked the office,” agrees the Sheriff.  There was no reason to think someone would harm the doctor.  They had been hoping the vandalism was just a coincidence to the doctor leaving because there were no leads as to where or why the doctor would be taken.

 “I would say your doctor has defected, Sheriff.”

“McCoy?” stammers the sheriff in disbelief.  He’s seen people do things not within their nature but he highly doubts the doctor slaughtered all these people.  “He’s a dandy from down south.  Wouldn’t know which end of a gun the bullet comes out of.  Certainly can’t see him turnin Indian anytime soon.”

The man doesn’t even glance at the deputy that lets out a chuckle at the Sheriff’s declaration.  “There’s a medical bag in the house with high quality tools, not something someone other than a professional would own or afford.  They’re also all covered in blood and since your deputies haven’t identified the doctor among the dead, I would wager he was an accomplice to the raiding party.”

The Sheriff has heard some wild theories in his time but this is bordering on the fantastical.  Just another example of fancy city folk coming to the underbelly of the world and being lost at sea.  “What did you say your name was?”

The man’s maniacal smile widens.  “Harrison, Agent John Harrison with the railway.  And I’m going to track your raiders down and make them pay for gunning down one of my employer’s business associates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this story, commented and/ or left kudos, you're the best.  
> Thanks to Ophelia Claire for beta reading this story.  
> I'm playing with the idea of writing a sequel, and am tentatively making this story part one of 'Western Enterprises'.


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